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All posts for the month September, 2013

Voice of a Spanish Dancer – You’re Never Too…Anything

Published September 30, 2013 by rochellewisoff

Copy of Mermaid

YOU’RE NEVER TOO…ANYTHING

 

            Between 17 August and 1 September, two events touched my life as few others have. The first was watching 17-year-old Leahi Camacho become the youngest swimmer to swim the 26 mile Moloka’i channel from Moloka’i to Oahu. The second was Diana Nyad’s triumph in her 103 mile swim from Cuba to Key West.

            Through a mutual friend of her father I was able to access a tracking map to follow Leahi’s progress. Although she’s unaware of it, when I swam my laps that day I went a mile with her.

            While she had a lot of support, I wonder how many well-meaning friends or relatives told her she was nuts. Long swim for someone so young. Think about it in a few years, when you’re older. Stronger. More mature.

            If this was the case, I’m happy she didn’t listen. She knew the risks involved and dove in headfirst to follow her heart.

            On the flip side, when are you too old to dream? Is it when you turn 60? Or maybe when you’ve blown out the candles on your 65th birthday cake and are eligible for Medicare?

            It’s my personal belief when you’re too old to dream and learn you might as well plan the funeral. You’re already dead.  

            On that note, I turn to a new role model in my life. Diana Nyad. Four times she tried and failed to swim from Cuba to Florida. Did she give up? Not a chance. At the tender age of 64 she achieved her goal.

            Does this mean I’m going to attempt a long distance swim, like my two heroes? I don’t think so, but the thought is in the realm of possibility. But, for the time being, I’m happy to swim laps in a much smaller body of water.

            The pool is my think tank. Unfettered by gravity, my mind is free to tell me stories. With each stroke I’m closer to reaching my goals. To dream. To write.

             “It’s never too late to be who you might have been.” T.S. Eliot.

 

27 September 2013

Published September 25, 2013 by rochellewisoff

WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. 

As always, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints. 

Henry David Thoreau said it best.

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

  • Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
  • MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH. (Should you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).
  • While our name implies “fiction only” it’s perfectly Kosher to write a non-fiction piece as long as it meets the challenge of being a complete story in 100 words. 
    • ***PLEASE MAKE NOTE IN YOUR BLOG IF  YOU PREFER NOT TO RECEIVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.*** 
    • REMINDER: This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.

    **Please exercise DISCRETION when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**

    Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.

  • Like us on Facebook
  • ;) My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and welcome constructive criticism. :D
  • Shalom,

              Rochelle

Copyright - Rich Voza

Copyright – Rich Voza

 

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As we pass through life we walk through many doors. One is the unavoidable door that opens onto puberty. 

Today it’s 1968. The Vietnam War, protests , civil rights marches and assassinations dominate the news. Peace signs, love-ins and psychedelic rock make the scene. Beehive hairdos and feminine curves are out. Ultra thin boyish figures and straight hair are in. 

Submitted for your approval: one adolescent’s story.

Genre: Literary Fiction

Word Count: 99

LEAVE IT LIKE IT IS

            “Hurry, you’ll be late for school!” Mom called from downstairs. “And your breakfast is getting cold.”

            “Give it to the dog!”

            “Don’t make me call your dad.”

            “Go ahead.”

            Jolene spread her long curly hair on the ironing board, laid a damp towel over it and then pressed it straight with the iron on the hottest setting.

            Then, to hide what Mother Nature had too generously endowed, she donned her brother’s sweater. Other girls her age had stick figures, like Twiggy. She tugged her jeans over her hips and scowled at her reflection in the full-length mirror.  

            “Hello, Ugly.”

___________________

As an epilogue to my story, I urge you to listen to the videoed song that follows.  I think you’ll understand why.

Remember when…?

Twiggy

copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

20 September 2013

Published September 18, 2013 by rochellewisoff

WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. 

😀 A hearty congratulations goes out to Madison Woods, Friday Fictioneers creator, who is marrying her beloved on the 22nd of this month! A blessing on your head! Mazel tov! Mazel tov! 😀

As always, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints. 

Henry David Thoreau said it best.

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

  • Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
  • MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH. (Should you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).
  • While our name implies “fiction only” it’s perfectly Kosher to write a non-fiction piece as long as it meets the challenge of being a complete story in 100 words. 
    • ***PLEASE MAKE NOTE IN YOUR BLOG IF  YOU PREFER NOT TO RECEIVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.*** 
    • REMINDER: This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.

    **Please exercise DISCRETION when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**

    Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.

  • Like us on Facebook
  • ;) My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and relish constructive criticism. :D
  • Shalom,

             Rochelle

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Genre: Swap Meet

Word count: 99

IF WORDS COULD MAKE WISHES COME TRUE

“This looks real old, Grandpa,” said nine-year-old Noah.

Edmond set down a piano-shaped teapot to look at a dog-eared book his grandson was leafing through. “Well, I’ll be! It’s Tom Swift and his Airship.

“Seventy years ago Pop got me an almost identical copy at a flea market like this. It was old even then.” Edmond took it from him. “His last day of leave. A month later the telegram came from the war department.”

He opened to the first page. The cramped handwriting blurred.

Dear Eddie

 b2airship

13 September 2013

Published September 11, 2013 by rochellewisoff

WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. 

As always, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints. 

Henry David Thoreau said it best.

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

😀 Be sure to wish Jackie P  and Perry Block a happy birthday this week! They both celebrate Thursday the 12th. 😀

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

  • Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
  • MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH. (Should you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).
  • While our name implies “fiction only” it’s perfectly Kosher to write a non-fiction piece as long as it meets the challenge of being a complete story in 100 words. 
    • ***PLEASE MAKE NOTE IN YOUR BLOG IF  YOU PREFER NOT TO RECEIVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.*** 
    • REMINDER: This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.

    **Please exercise DISCRETION when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**

    Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.

  • Like us on Facebook
  • ;) My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and relish constructive criticism. :D
  • Shalom,

              Rochelle

Copyright - Jan Wayne Fields

Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

MOTHER OF EXILES

            “Rachel, would you please read this sentence for us?” The English teacher’s intense gaze shot through the young woman as she pointed to the page.       

            This new land with its unfamiliar ways and language challenged her. She’d dreamt of freedom. Instead, New York’s Lower East Side bore much similarity to her poverty-stricken village in Moldavia. 

            “I try, Miss Lazarus.” Twisting and untwisting her shawl fringes, she read, “‘Ve holt dese troots’…Ikh ken nit…I cannot…”

            “‘We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men’…all people…‘are created equal.’” Emma Lazarus took Rachel’s hands in hers. “You can. You will. You must.”

______________

While you may never have heard of Emma Lazarus, if you’re a U. S. citizen you’re probably familiar with, at least, a portion of her poem inside the base of the Statue of Liberty:

THE NEW COLOSSUS

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Emma Lazarus

To read about this amazing woman click here. 

This article is only the tip of the iceberg. If you’re interested do a Google search to learn more. I did. 😉

Voice of a Spanish Dancer-Birthday Strokes

Published September 4, 2013 by rochellewisoff

Copy of Mermaid

 With each swim stroke I stretch and roll my body from side to side, releasing tension into the water.  It’s my birthday. Number six-oh on the hit parade. At the end of the first length I somersault, flip onto my back and push off the side of the pool wall.

            My parents gave me a Chatty Cathy for my sixth birthday. Ever notice she had the same voice as Talking Tina on the Twilight Zone?

            I reach the opposite end of the pool, turn slowly and deliberately, allowing the water to suspend me. The sun shines through the liquid ceiling and bathes the concrete and mosaic lines with refracted light. I push off the wall with my feet.

            On my tenth birthday, my dad opened a bank account for me with a dollar for each year. I felt very grown up with my passbook in hand.

            Missing the pool’s edge I falter in the next flip-turn. Water fills my nose and stings for a moment. A few strokes later the sensation passes.

            One chilly afternoon, almost three months after my first two-digit birthday, the world changed with the president’s assassination. Months later the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan and puberty appeared on my horizon.

            Right, left, breathe to the right. Left, right, breathe to the left. There’s a rhythm to everything.

            My sixteenth birthday passed without notice. No party. Hardly a nod from my parents. Why does this still hurt? It happened over half a century ago. Get over it, old girl. Move on.

            Two laps, then three, I switch to a new stroke at each turn. Freestyle. Backstroke. Breast stroke.

            At twenty one, I held my six-month old son in my arms. By my thirtieth we’d multiplied that number by three sons.

            Back to freestyle stroke I swim the length without taking a breath.

            The Gulf War called my husband back to active duty Navy. The boys grew in his absence without taking a breath. Upon his return, I found a job as a cake decorator in a grocery store. My boss hid in the walk-in cooler to decorate a cake for my fortieth birthday.

            I submerge and turn in the water, then surface for a gulp of air. Swimming on my back, I count strokes and ceiling tiles so I don’t bump my head on the pool’s edge.

            My fiftieth birthday came and went virtually unnoticed. My middle son married, a year later the eldest also married. The youngest left home to pursue his music. We were blessed with a granddaughter. In the midst of it all I discovered my latent passion for writing.

            Like water, life rushes by. I don’t feel older, but my mirror tells a different story.

            One last time I flip, dive underwater, skim the pool floor and ask myself, “What will I be when I grow up?”

.

.

.

Beside my special birthday this week, Diana Nyad, an incredible woman realized her dream at the tender age of 64. Four previous failed attempts didn’t deter her. I doff my swim cap to your, Diana! To read more click here.

Thank you, Diana, for the birthday gift of hope and determination.  You made my day!

6 September 2013

Published September 4, 2013 by rochellewisoff

WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. 

As always, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints. 

Henry David Thoreau said it best.

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

  • Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
  • MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH. (Should you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).
  • While our name implies “fiction only” it’s perfectly Kosher to write a non-fiction piece as long as it meets the challenge of being a complete story in 100 words. 
    • ***PLEASE MAKE NOTE IN YOUR BLOG IF  YOU PREFER NOT TO RECEIVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.*** 
    • REMINDER: This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.

    **Please exercise DISCRETION when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**

    Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.

  • Like us on Facebook
  • ;) My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and relish constructive criticism. :D
  • Shalom,

              Rochelle

IAAM

Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

get the InLinkz code

In celebration of my big birthday which is happening as this page goes live, I chose one of my own photos. Lots to see and write about here. My response time will probably be pretty slow this week since I’ll be on vacation (on holiday for all our UK friends 😉 ). Also  Yom Huledet Samayach to Randy Mazie who shares the same birthday. 

On Monday, 20 May 1957, an F5 tornado leveled Ruskin Heights, a suburb of Kansas City, MO. Thankfully our subdivision, although fairly close,  was not effected. However, impressions of the day still remain.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

UNDER THE RAINBOW

            One Monday afternoon in 1957, four-and-a-half-year-old Glinda filled glass creamers in Daddy’s restaurant. If there were enough, Mommy let her save one for Spike.

            A customer pointed to the window. “Twister weather.”

            Outside the sky had turned greenish-yellow.

            “Take cover!” cried the voice on the radio. “Touch-down. Ruskin Heights.”

             “Daddy… Spike?”

              Later he turned into their debris-strewn, houseless driveway. Mommy shook her head. “Poor Spike, I’m afraid he’s…”

            “No!” Glinda sprang from the car, ran to a pile, dropped down and held out the creamer. “Here kitty.”

            With a loud meow, Spike peeked out, purred and hungrily lapped the cream.  

Ruskin Heights Kitty

old creamerI really did fill creamers at my dad’s restaurant “Bob’s Place”. This may be the pitcher I used.  

 

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