Summer is the time for vacations, picnics on the beach and reruns on the telly. For me it’s a time to meet a deadline in July for my third novel in my series entitled AS ONE MUST ONE CAN. Many thanks to those of you who responded to my plea for your favorite reruns.
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The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from Feivel Mousewitz Gayer. If you’re one of those who wrote a story for this prompt feel free to re-post it and enjoy the respite. Remember that all photos are private property and subject to copyright. Use other than Friday Fictioneers by permission only.
I can’t believe it’s been three years since I posted this story. 13 September 2013
I copied and pasted from the original post. But you may click the link if you want to see who said what in their comments.
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!”
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. 😉