Once more, following the research trail I learned some history I didn’t know. If that’s not wonderful enough, this is ART history.
Mural by Carlos Mérida – Institute of Social Security in Guatemala City
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
OPUS MAJESTUOSO
Carlos hunched over the piano, hands over his ears, tears dripping on the ivory keys. “No puedo oír la música. Mi vida se acabó.”
“Mi hijo,” Papa squeezed Carlos’ shoulder, “my son, you are only fifteen. It is sad that sickness damaged your ears, but your life is just beginning.”
“How can I be a pianist if I cannot hear the music?”
Papa opened a varnished wooden box containing tubes of color and various sized brushes. “Your art teacher says you show gran potential.”
Rolling one of the brushes between his fingers, a slow smile spread Carlos’ lips. His heart raced as he stroked an imaginary canvas. “I will paint todo el mundo, the whole world.”
___
51 years later, in 1958, Delilah Mérida’s smile radiated love and pride when the Guatemalan government honored his artistic achievement with the Order of the Quetzal. “My husband makes music for the eyes.”
Although I hope it came through in context, here’s the translation: “No puedo oír la musica. Mi vida se acebó.” -“I can’t hear the music. My life is over.”
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.
Addie, tall for fourteen, Denise, the dress-up princess, Cynthia, and Carole, the Girl Scout who had earned every known badge, prepared for the youth service. I envied them as they tied each other’s sashes. I was only four, too young to participate.
Cynthia’s dark eyes sparkled. “How many times should we forgive?”
Her smile illuminating the Birmingham church basement, Addie, winked at me. “Seventy times seven.”
Moments later, the Grand Dragon spewed fire and brimstone. Time halted at 10:22 that September Sunday morning in 1963. Eternity claimed four angels.
I cannot forgive.
*
*
*
“I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.” Martin Luther King, Jr.
A hearty thank you to those who made the ultimate sacrifice for the freedoms we so richly enjoy. May their memories be blessing.
So…this is the photo I chose from the Pegman menu. I confess to being a bit of a renegade on this one. My story has nothing to do with Kanchanaburi or A. Rosenberg. You may recognize the characters in this story if you’ve read any of my books. 😉 However, this piece isn’t in any of them.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY
The rabbi shut his prayer book. “May HaShem grant us strength to see beyond our sorrow and may the name of Sarah Tulschinsky be blessed.”
Havah gazed at her sister-in-law’s newly unveiled headstone. Had it really been a whole year since the gentle woman who had welcomed Havah to America succumbed to pneumonia? She placed a large pebble on the marker.
Sarah’s nine-year-old son Jeffrey tugged at Havah’s sleeve. “Auntie, why do we put rocks on graves when Christians put flowers on them?”
Kneeling, she wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “What happens after you pick a flower?”
“It turns brown and dies.”
“Can a rock die?”
“Huh-uh.”
“A stone is eternal, like your mama’s soul. The more stones you see on a person’s grave, the more he or she has been remembered.”
Jeffrey opened his clenched fist and dropped a handful of pebbles. “I will never forget you, Mama.”
For the past five years, since joining Friday Fictioneers, I’ve written or posted a flash fiction at least once a week. My favorite genre is historical fiction, but that hasn’t stopped me from writing humorous anecdotes, realistic fiction or just plain nonsense. But any and all who know me very well will tell you that Jewish themes are my favorites. Nu? Why shouldn’t they be? I am after all, a Jew. All four of my grandparents came from Eastern Europe to escape the pogroms in the Pale of Settlement or the Russian draft.
Last month I met Eve Brackenbury, a gifted poet who co-owns Inklings’ Books & Coffee Shoppe in Blue Springs, Missouri, on Facebook. Social Media is my friend.
Not only did I make a new friend that day, I also made a valuable connection on many fronts. Our first conversation dealt with the challenges of marketing. As we chatted in an IM she said, “You write Jewish Historical Fiction. Are you Jewish?” Is the Pope Catholic?
Eve told me about the CloudBursT Jewish Poetry event and gave me Martha Gershun’s email address. Although I don’t write what I would call poetry, I thought perhaps Martha might be able to point me in the right direction as far as reaching a Jewish audience. I inserted one of my Jewish themed flash fictions in my email to her and, not five minutes later, the return email came with, “That’s really powerful. Would you like to come and read?”
Martha Gershun- CloudBursT organizer and poet
I must’ve changed my mind twelve times as to which stories I would read. Finally, the day came, Sunday, May 21, and I’d narrowed it down to four of my favorites. The lobby of Congregation Beth Torah teemed with poets and their guests. We were warmly welcomed with food, wine and friendly conversation.
So much Yiddishkeit. I felt like I’d come home. I particularly enjoyed Ellen Portnoy’s piece “The Nuances of Nu.”
Out of 19 who read, I was third to the last, just before Eve. The ones I read are as follows:
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT
In preparation for his bar mitzvah, twelve-year-old Harvey Weinstein opened the book to his parashah. His stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry.”
“Sh’mot beginning with Chapter 16,” said Rabbi Shmuel. “First in English, then Hebrew.”
Harvey fumed. “I’m tired of Torah. I’d rather play Xbox.”
“This is the perfect reading for you.” The rabbi winked and pointed to the page. “The children of Israel kvetched day and night in the wilderness. ‘Oy, Moses, we’re wet. We’re cold. We’re starving to death.’ Nu? Is there something we can learn from them?”
“Yeah.” Folding his arms across his chest, Harvey smirked. “Jews don’t camp.”
***
FAMILY TREE
“‘And they lived happily ever after.’” Leah shut the storybook.
Shifra’s raisin-brown eyes, round as bottle caps, sparkled. “Bubbie? Did you love Grandpa at first sight?”
“He was only eight when we met. Mama took him in…hid him from the khappers, bad men who snatched little Jewish boys from their homes and made them serve twenty-five years in the Czar’s army.”
“Did she hide him in the closet?”
“No she was smart, my Mama.”
“He was like your brother, right?”
Leah pointed to a tintype on the table of two little bonneted girls and grinned. “More like my sister.”
***
THE HEAVIEST WHEEL ROLLS ACROSS OUR FOREHEADS
When I was a little girl in the 1950’s, Mom used to take me to visit my aunt in St. Louis. I so looked forward to those train rides. Sunlight dazzled through the trees as they whizzed by and the rhythm of the wheels along the track soothed me.
Dad, on the other hand, hated trains, but would never tell me why. Only once did he accompany us.
As we left Union Station, tears trickled from the corners of his faraway eyes.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
“The stench was unbearable. Fifty of us crammed into a cattle car. I alone escaped.”
***
HATH NOT A JEW EYES?
Do you know the word “Jew” is a common insult among Norwegian teens? Should this bother me? After all, I am a Norwegian Jew.
“If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
Reptilian? I’ve been called this. Do people seriously believe this mishegoss—that Jews are lizard creatures from another planet?
“If you tickle us, do we not laugh?”
I will never forget holding my father’s hand as we strolled along a mountain path. Two youths shoved him and shouted, “Child murderer!”
The memory of warm spittle dripping down my face sickens me still.
“If you wrong us, do we not revenge?”
Not in Norway. Instead, we hide in plain sight.
Last summer a group of Hasidim invited us to a Jewish gathering in Oslo. We cranked up the music and danced in front of Parliament.
I’ve heard that work makes us free, but we’re not falling for that again.
Poets Estelle and Virginia
Ellen Portnoy on the left. Nu? Have you clicked the link and read her article?
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.
Broken glass, paper and other debris littered the once cheerful apartment. The prophet Jeremiah’s words swirled through Ulrich’s mind like a hollow wind.
“A voice was heard in Ramah…
…Rachel weeping for her children…”
Dim light from his lantern cast macabre shadows on the spattered walls. He gazed at the children’s battered faces and twisted forms. What could reduce men to such bestial acts?
His stomach shuddered and emptied itself. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “You bloody bastards! Christ died for you and you use Him as an excuse for your bloodletting! Why? Why? Why?”
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*Note: The title is John 11:35, the shortest verse in the New Testament and reflects Ulrich Dietrich’s beliefs. Ulrich is a Christian gentleman who is outraged that innocent people would be murdered in the name of his Lord.
THOUGHTS ON WORD COUNT. It can be painful to slaughter darlings and the writer may think, “Impossible. My story won’t have the same impact without those 50 extra words.” Surprise! 99.9% of the time it’s not only possible, but preferable. That’s what this exercise is about. Learning to say more with less. Take a second look before posting. Start with adverbs and passive voice. Instead of “I was running as quickly as I could…” try “I rushed…” THINK ABOUT IT.
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.
Feel free to stroll around using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post.
To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:
This challenge has become a favorite of mine and I couldn’t bear to miss it this week. This weekend has been an incredibly busy one. And as I’m working toward Book Four of my trilogy (coffee table companion book of illustrations and character studies), I hope you’ll forgive my posting an excerpt from my first novel PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME.
While the photo I chose is in Cirque de Navacelles, my story is not.
Genre: Novel Excerpt
Word Count: 149
CAST FROM HER FATHER’S HOUSE
Rocks, frozen grass and thorns stabbed the soles of her bare feet. There had been no time for shoes, no time to dress.
Who would pray for their souls? Who would remember David, the artist or Mendel, the poet or Mama or Papa? She forced her heavy mouth to shape the Hebrew prayer—Kaddish—prayer for the dead and prayer for the bereft.
“‘Magnified and sanctified is your great Name…’”
Havah Cohen detested its beauty. Her hands, held over her ears, could not blot out the anguished cries of friends and neighbors, fast becoming memories.
“‘…in the world which you have created…’”
Thorns grabbed at her nightgown and she fought to ignore the fire in her lungs. “‘…according to Your will.’”
Run.
Brambles ripped into her flesh.
Run.
The muscles of her legs burned.
Don’t stop. Run.
“‘Let His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.’”
Feel free to stroll around using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post.
To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:
A busy weekend and a case of writers’ block made me late to the party this week. As always a hearty ‘thank you’ to Karen Rawson and J Hardy Carroll.
When I saw that we’re in Yorkshire this week, my mind went to one of my all-time favorite books, ‘The Secret Garden” by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I searched Google for information about the author who was a progressive woman of her day. Alack and alas, the pieces just wouldn’t come together for a biographical flash. As a child and, even now, I like to daydream sequels. So today, just for grins and giggles, I dashed one off.
The photo I chose is a garden in Yorkshire Dales.
Genre: Daydreamed Conception
Word Count; 150
IT’S NO SECRET
Colin sniffed a rose. “Springtime in Yorkshire. I miss it.”
Mary knelt to pull a weed from her uncle’s grave. Standing, she brushed dirt and leaves from her swollen belly. “He loved this garden so. If it’s a boy we’ll name him Archibald. ”
Dickon kissed her. “A grand name our little ‘un.”
Colin’s eyes welled. “There’s magic in this place.”
Mary swallowed. “Must you go?”
Colin squared his broad shoulders. “I’ll stay until the christening, Cousin Mary. My patients depend on me.”
At that moment, a woman with gleaming curls entered the garden and embraced Mary. “Am I late?”
“I hope no one minds,” said Mary. “I invited Teresa to dinner.”
Colin flushed. “Pleased to meet you—Teresa.”
“Dr. Craven.” She offered her hand. “Mary says you have a thriving practice in London.”
“I—I’m moving back here soon.”
Dickon’s lips curved upward. “Aye, there’s magic in this place.”
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.
“Andrea should know the truth,” said Myron. “May her father’s memory be blessed.”
“The truth is she’s an American citizen now.” Cerulean eyes brimming, Gabrielle stroked her slumbering daughter’s golden curls. “Forget her father. Forget France.”
Myron embraced his bride and drank in her fragrance. “Your survival is miracle.”
“A ‘miracle’ based on lies—forged papers and a fiancé in the Wermacht. Could’ve fooled Himmler himself.” She sniffed. “I should’ve died with my brunette sisters at Auschwitz.”
Myron’s breath caught in his throat. “Fiancé?”
“The truth is my Albrecht loved me no matter what. I…willingly gave birth to his Lebensborn.”
Feel free to stroll around using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post.
To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:
They say location is everything. Many thanks to Karen Rawson and her highly significant other, J Hardy Carroll for hosting and sharing a new location to challenge us every week.
Chicago River
Some reading might remember this story from Friday Fictioneers two years ago. I took the liberty of revisiting and adding fifty words to it.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
SHIKAKO
“Place Where the Skunk Weed Grows”
Catherine DuSable walked along the shore of the Eschikagou while her beloved Jean-Baptiste slept. Today a steady stream of customers had come to their trading post to buy and sell. Usually she enjoyed the stories they shared.
One trapper eyed her. “What you want for that fine squaw, Monsieur DuSable?”
“My wife is not for sale.”
She raised her hands to the sky and danced beside the waters, shaking off the trapper’s leering image.
“Mama, I can’t sleep.”
She turned to see Susannah whose tight black curls and dark skin glowed in the moonlight. So like her father. Catherine scooped the child into her arms.
“When I was little I prayed to Kichi Muhnido, the Great Spirit, for peaceful dreams.”
“You mean St. Raphael. Papa says…”
“For him I am Catholic, but in my heart of hearts I will always be Kitihawa, of the Bodéwadmi, keepers of the sacred fire.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 