The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette. This week’s photo is from Roger Bultot for whom there is no link. Thanks for letting us use your photos Roger.
Molly made a face at her brother. “You birdbrain.”
“Am not!” Jimmy scowled.
“That’s a compliment you know,” said Grandpop.
“Why?” asked Molly.
“You never heard of Cher Ami?”
“What’s that?”
“Not what—who. He was a hero of the Great War.” Tears stung Grandpop’s eyes. “The Krauts shot a hole in his chest, took out his eye and blew off his leg. Nothing could deter him from his mission.”
“Wowsers!” Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “He was tough.”
Molly sighed. “Was he good looking, too, Grandpop?”
“I’ll say. Two hundred of us dough boys owe that handsome carrier pigeon our lives.”
Sol Mayer was born in Moldavia. When he was a child he moved to Poland with his parents who became successful shop owners. There he met and married his wife Zelda. Together, they immigrated to America where he owns Mayfair, a profitable dry goods store in Kansas City.
By most standards the Mayers are wealthy. While Zelda enjoys all that money affords and is wont to put on airs, Sol never forgets his humble shtetl beginnings. Although he owns a mansion on Quality Hill, he would be happy in a shanty as long as he had his wife and daughter, Wendy, at his side. He is known by the community for fairness, generosity and a quick wit.
***
In the following scene, Havah and Arel’s daughter Rachel is not quite two years old.
The long narrow shop smelled of leather, licorice, and chocolate, but for the most part, it reeked of Sol’s cigars. Havah moved between rows of shelves filled with dolls, toy trains and stacks of canned food until she found the tooth powder.
Behind the counter Sol Mayer smiled at her, his cigar clenched between his teeth. Smoke tendrils framed his bulldog jowls. He took a peppermint stick from a glass jar and held it out to Rachel who wriggled in her pram.
“Looks like the little maideleh needs one of these.”
“What she really needs is an n-a-p. But c-a-n-d-y might keep her quiet for a while.” Havah opened her coin purse.
“Put your money away, Mrs. Gitterman. My treat.” Sol walked around the counter and knelt. He handed the candy to Rachel who popped the tip of it into her mouth.
“What do you say to the nice man, Rukhel Shvester?” Havah snapped her purse clasp shut.
“Senk oo.”
“Amazing!” Sol patted the child’s head. “Wendy didn’t start talking until she was almost three. Of course she hasn’t stopped to take a breath since. Just like her mother.” He brushed his hand over his balding head and winked at her. “I had a full head of hair when I married Zelda.”
Best wishes go out to our friend CEAYR and hopes that he’ll be pain free soon.
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.
Beryl’s wealthy uncle paid his way to America to study medicine in exchange for help in his store. The long narrow shop smelled of leather, licorice, and chocolate, but mostly, it reeked of Uncle Sol’s cigars.
“Did you leave a sweetheart in Moldavia, Beryl?”
“Yes sir.”
“Say the word and I’ll bring her over.”
***
“Beryl, don’t go. I’ll die of a broken heart.”
“I’ll come back for you, Havah.”
***
“She perished in a pogrom four years ago.”
Sol stopped to wait on a young mother with her child.
“Beryl, meet Mrs. Gitterman from Moldavia.”
Beryl’s heart thundered her name. “Havah!”
*I Love You Too Much
Just for fun an updated traditional Yiddish melody if you’re in the mood. 😉
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.
Best wishes go out to our friend CEAYR and hopes that he’ll be without pain very soon.
This month marks my fourth Friday Fictioneers Anniversary! To commemorate it I’m posting a rerun. At least the photo’s a rerun. If you already wrote a story to go with this prompt all those years ago, feel free to take a breather and re-post it.
As I reread the story I posted four years ago this week, I decided it needed some updating. It was, after all, the third flash fiction I ever wrote. If you’d like to read the original click HERE
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
IN MEMORY OF 24682
Between barbs and twisted wire the sun had the audacity to shine. Marushka’s stomach howled in outrage as she licked the dregs of a discarded sardine tin. She stretched her skeletal legs and longed for silk stockings to hug her once shapely calves.
She took a cracked mirror from her pocket and winced at her bald reflection. Murderer!
“I couldn’t let them hear you.” Memories of her baby gasping for breath under her palm haunted her. Employing the jagged glass, she slashed from her wrist to her tattoo. Relief flooded her as her life pooled in the grass. “Mama’s coming.”
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.
Our fellow fictioneer CEAYR asked that I extend his apologies for his lack of participation of late. While he doesn’t mean to be rude, our friend is dealing with physical issues that prevent him from being more involved.
“‘…The taller officer, an imposing presence with dark skin, fascinated Havah. Although she had read about them in Professor Dietrich’s books about Africa and American history, she had never met a Negro face to face.’”
“What year does your book take place?”
“1904.”
“I hate to burst your bubble,” says my fellow writer with smug conviction. “I realize it’s historical fiction but I seriously doubt there would’ve been a black officer back then.”
I whip out my Kansas City history book and point to a photo of uniformed Lafayette Tillman on horseback. “Second one on the KC force. Next question.”
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.
Please be considerate and make an effort to stay within the suggested word count.
Due to circumstances beyond my control this past week, including an all day car repair, dental issues and a computer crash, I am posting an excerpt from my working manuscript, As One Must, One Can. While it’s just under a hundred words, it’s not a complete story. In this stage of the book, Havah, who teaches an unheard of girl’s Hebrew class, accompanied by her nephew Lev, is going to check on two of her students who live in McClure Flats which was a Kansas City Slum populated mostly by Russian Jewish immigrants.
Genre: Historical Fiction
(the year is 1908)
Word Count: 97
AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN – EXCERPT
Lev and Havah passed a row of brick hovels with lean-tos serving as porches.
Everywhere she turned she saw unkempt children whose noses leaked slimy trails to their lips.
A woman with pockmarked cheeks and sunken eyes sat beside a shanty, her blouse hanging open so her toddler could suckle from her shriveled breast.
A little girl chased a small animal crying, “Kit-kat! Kit-kat!” in Yiddish.
The creature scurried under Havah’s skirts before disappearing between the cracks of a dilapidated wall. The ground swerved beneath her when she realized it was neither cat nor dog, but a large rat.
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.
Please be considerate and make an effort to stay within the suggested word count.
Do you now spurn me because I refuse to embrace your Christus? Does this make me a heretic? So be it! But never have I denied the eternal soul of man as you so accuse. I wrote only that the mind informs us and is where mortal and immortal are confined.
Thus, I confine myself to Gheto Vechio…”
Blinded by tears, the old monk set Sarra Copia’s letter ablaze in the candle flame. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
“Now, where was I? Your education…Frederic Chopin.” Ulrich cleared his throat and poised his hands over the keys. “He was one of the world’s greatest composers. His life was short but his influence great. Nocturne in C-sharp Minor was my Valerica’s favorite. Her life was also short. She said this piece took her to far off places. Close your eyes and see where it takes you.”
From the first resounding chords a flood of emotion flowed through Havah like a river current. In a moment she was both callow child, alive with anticipation, and wizened matron, bone weary and full of years. Her mother’s voice lulled and comforted her with a song about raisins and almonds. She saw her father’s face, half illuminated by candle flame as he poured over volume after volume of Talmud. Arel approached from the shadows, tall and thin. His gray eyes devoured her. His tender lips kissed her.
Frederic Chopin’s Nocturne in C Sharp Minor soothed Havah’s jangled nerves. The ivory keys were smooth and comforting under her fingertips. Although she would never be a pianist of Ulrich’s caliber she played well enough to entertain an audience of one. Closing her eyes, she relished a soft breeze carrying the scents of daffodil and hyacinth through the open window.
Letting the strains of Chopin’s Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor waft over her, Shayndel sat in the rocking chair beside the piano with Tikvah asleep on her lap. While Shayndel did not know many musical pieces by name like her sister-in-law she could always recognize this one. When Havah was sad or in pain this would be the piece she chose to play.
While not a person or an animal, a piece of classical music becomes something of a friend and companion to Havah.Chopin’s Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor comforts her when reality becomes too much to handle.
I fell in love with this piece and Chopin’s music when I saw the movie The Pianist. It’s haunting, ethereal beauty transports this author to other places so it seemed only natural it would do the same for Havah.
Unlike the author, Havah has latent musical talent that Ulrich is only too happy to nurture. While he tries to steer her to something simpler for a beginner, she is determined to learn how to play the nocturne.
I hope you’ll take the time to not only read my excerpts but also to enjoy the music.
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.
Please be considerate and make an effort to stay within the suggested word count.
Due to schedule, travel and novel writing, my ‘story’ this week is a paragraph from the third novel (in progress) in my trilogy As One Must, One Can, which is due out this year. It’s not a complete story. Thank you for understanding.
Genre: Historical Fiction
(the year is 1907)
Word Count: 98
AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN – EXCERPT
In Kansas City motor cars were rapidly replacing the horse and buggy. Automobiles went faster and did not eat their weight in hay and oats. Even so, Nikolai preferred the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on pavement to the grinding noises and choking exhaust fumes of modern transportation. It did not matter for he could afford neither car nor carriage. If he could, walking, even in winter, would always be his preferred mode of travel for physical stamina. Tucking his head, he pulled his hat down and his coat collar up to shield his ears from the frigid wind.
Sunday, I had the pleasure of being interviewed by David Clarke of Blog Talk Radio. The interview is an hour long so you might want to come back to it. 😉
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 