A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments.
Last week I joined Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt Challenge on whim. After all it was only 17 words. This week it’s 91. The word is ‘Foundations’ which stirred a memory for me.
It was the required course at the Kansas City Art Institute. In 1971, three instructors, Al, Steve and Jim presented freshmen with new ways to think about art.
Foundations.
I found Jim austere and intimidating.
Steve, who had an easy smile, bummed cigarettes from those who smoked.
In one memorable class, Al stripped before his stunned pupils. Straightaway he redressed. To this day I’m not sure what I was supposed to learn from the experience.
In retrospect, I don’t believe I had a clue. I’m not sure I have one now.
As always, please be considerate of your fellow Fictioneers and keep your stories to 100 words. (Title is not included in the word count.) Many thanks.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
“Hurry, wife. The city’s crumbling around us.” The aged patriarch bent to fasten his sandals, and straightened with a groan. “Oy. I’m too old for this.”
“Do you prefer the blue tunic or the beige?” She held them up. “I think the blue brings out my eyes.”
“Woman! Are you meshuga? An angel warns us of the incoming wrath of God and you’re concerned with clothes?”
“No fashion sense.” She rolled her eyes. “You really believe this judgement mishegoss, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“Angel shmangel.” She shrugged. “Lot, my love. I take everything you say with a grain of salt.”
*For those unfamiliar with Old Testament Bible stories, when God delivered Lot and his family from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the angel had instructed them not to look back. Lot’s wife did and turned into a pillar of salt.
***
ANNOUNCING:
My Coffee Table book A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY is now available on Amazon KINDLE, Paperback or Hardcover. Hardcover is also available at Barnes & Noble.com
I’m not crazy about the formatting job they did on the Kindle, but it’s all there. 😉 I’ve yet to see the paperback version so I reserve opinion. Nor do I understand why the paperback and hardcover are the same price.
How did 2018 go by so quickly? As has become a tradition, I’m joining Dawn Landau’s positive affirmation challenge (my words 😉 ) You can find the directions here on her post. Do set your timer. I did and was surprised that in 15 minutes I exceeded 50 things I was thankful for and when the timer went off I really wasn’t finished. I named a few names but could name so many more. The number order has nothing to do with importance. This is totally stream of consciousness.
After being MIA from Pegman for a while, the muse struck. 😉 Now that the dust is settling a bit from the holidays. In any event, the Google trail took to an irresistible place in Zimbabwe History. The year is 1894 and Zimbabwe was known as Rhodesia. The following year a small band of Jewish refugees would build a synagogue in Harare.
As always, thank yous to Karen and Josh for hosting. Follow the link below to read other stories or to add your own. Remember reciprocation is half the fun.
Harare Synagogue
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
NEXT YEAR IN JERUSALEM?
“An adventure he says,” whispered Fayga to her three-month-old Yankel. “Your papa is a meshuggenehvants.”
She missed the synagogue in Lithuania, with its beautiful woodwork and intricate carvings on the Holy Ark.
More than anything, she missed her family. But, if she were back at home she would still miss them. Murdered. What difference did it make from where she mourned?
Yankel sneezed and squirmed on her lap. She waved a fly away from his nose. “Such a shayna punim.”
The tent juddered. A warm breeze wafted over her as the cantor sang, “Here oh Israel, Adonoi our God, Adoni is one.”
“Don’t you see? We’re no longer safe here, my beloved?” He packed his books into a trunk next to her Sabbath candlesticks. “The Messiah will find us no matter where we go.”
Who knew their journey would take them from Eastern Europe to Bulawayo in faraway Africa?
*meshuggeneh vantz – crazy bedbug
*shayna punim – pretty face (It was one of my mother’s nicknames for me 🙂 )
It’s all Dale’s fault. She’s been doing this challenge for a while now. I thought, “17 words, I can do this, right? Of course right.” If you’d like to try it, it’s led by Sammi Cox
Missionaries’ flames ignite to kill the Indian, but save the child.
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
As always, please be considerate of your fellow Fictioneers and keep your stories to 100 words. (Title is not included in the word count.) Many thanks.
For those who celebrate, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas. Another rerun this week. For those who have written for this prompt (and you know who you are) feel free to post a repeat as well. This is my story from July 12, 2013 . Time flies, doesn’t it? Thanks to all who have hung with me for the past 6 years. I’d list them, but I’d be sure to leave someone out. Hard to believe this is the last Friday Fictioneers post for 2018! A HAPPY HEALTHY NEW YEAR TO ALL! Shalom, Rochelle
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
BRIGHT BLESSED DAY, DARK SACRED NIGHT
Life in 1907 New Orleans made Rebecca Karnofsy question the “land of the free”. As in Russia, they were still persecuted. Scapegoats.
After circling her hands around the candles, she recited the Sabbath prayer, ending with, “Omayn and Gut Shabbos.”
“Gut Shabbos.” Louis’ smile eclipsed his midnight-brown face.
“A fine boy.” Bernie patted his head. “Already he’s repaid my loan.”
One of the Karnofsky boys sniffed. “He just bought a dumb old horn.”
Eyes wider than wide, Louis jumped up from his chair. “Someday dis whole wonderful world gon’ hear my trumpet an’ know my name is Louis Daniel Armstrong!”
Young Louis Armstrong with his mother and sister.
Amen.
****
ANNOUNCING:
My Coffee Table book A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY is now available on Amazon KINDLE or Paperback. Hardcover is available at Barnes & Noble.com
The print version is also available on Amazon.co.uk. Amazon Australia and India have the Kindle version only. I’m not crazy about the formatting job they did on the Kindle, but it’s all there. 😉
Please be considerate of 70 or more participants and keep your story to 100 words. Thank you.
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Another week of reruns. This is a story I posted 5 years ago 13 December 2013 Click the link to see who was with us then. A few of you may have written a story for this prompt. If so, feel free to post your own rerun.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
UNEXPECTED GIFT, UNEXPECTED TIME
Charli’s hiking boots are caked with dried mud that defies my cleaning efforts.
From her first cry, I dreamed of dressing my firstborn in pink pinafores with ruffled lace. But, before she turned two, Charli made it clear she detested pink.
Since then, I’ve given birth to another tomboy and a son who happens to love pink. Go figure.
After the accident on her thirteenth birthday, the boots were the only part of Charli I didn’t sell, toss or donate.
I listen for the doorbell. In a moment I’ll meet the girl to whom I gave my daughter’s untamed heart.
As always, please be considerate of your fellow Fictioneers and keep your stories to 100 words. (Title is not included in the word count.) Many thanks.
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
The holiday season is upon us and I find myself to be busier than a one-armed paper hanger. Between the mandatory gifting, my husband’s birthday the 15th, book signings/art shows, and working on a new novel that’s taking up quite a bit of head-space, I’ve taken the liberty to craft this dreadful run-on sentence and also to post some reruns this month. The photo and story are from December 14, 2012 Some may remember it. For those of you who wrote a story for this prompt, feel free to post a rerun. The photographer of this prompt has been MIA for a while, but I assure you, our disc flinger is alive, well, and happy.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
UNHOLY BONDS
Somewhere between “I do” and diapers Gavin’s winsome bride turned into a nattering, self-centered shrew. Everything he said or did she took as either an affront or lack of caring.
If he brought her flowers she accused him of seeing another woman. If he made overtures she accused him of treating her like a sex object.
Eventually he gave up trying to fix their relationship and escaped to his garage sanctuary.
One afternoon Lois stood over him, packed suitcase and their three-year-old son in tow. “I’m leaving.”
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
As always, please be considerate of your fellow Fictioneers and keep your stories to 100 words. (Title is not included in the word count.) Many thanks.
Henry hugged little Hattie, the baby of his thirteen children. “Last time I got sold I mighta been nine, maybe ten.”
“Play your banjo, Daddy.” Her huge eyes shone. “Please.”
“Only if’n you sings along.”
***
After performing in carnivals and minstrel shows, Hattie McDaniel set her sights on Hollywood.
In the 1940’s and 50’s the NAACP criticized the Oscar winning actress for her servile screen roles. She defied her accusers saying, “Until you offer a better alternative, I’d rather portray a maid for $700 a week than be one for seven.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 