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 Sammi’s Comment Section.
Often off-key, she’s rhythmically challenged, dancing to her own tune.
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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.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
Genre: Romance
Word Count: 100
JILTED AND SCORNED
The four-tiered cake, a culinary masterpiece dripping with elegant flowers graced the table—untouched.
Gretchen stared out the window. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
What happened to Jared? Why would he abandon her?
Outside a man banged on the door. Dripping hair hung in his dirty face.
Perfect ending to a perfectly horrid day. Damned vagrant.
“Go away!” She hollered.
“Gretchen, please.”
Her stomach flipflopped. He stumbled through the doorway, spattering her Gucci gown.
“Engine blew—” he sputtered between muddy kisses “—nearly drowned—hiked from—Good God, I love you.”
“Shut up and marry me now.”
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Thanks to Dale for permission to render her beautiful photo. Prints and note cards available. 😉
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Not four tiered but one of my favorite cakes from my decorating days.
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 Sammi’s Comment Section.
When I figure out how to keep the machine threaded I’ll finish hemming my jeans.
NEEDLES AND THUMBS
I referred to it as home wreckanomics with good reason. I hated cleaning and I was a disaster in the kitchen. At twelve, I’d already set my sights on, one day, becoming a professional artist. I’d never be Suzie Homemaker.
I only took the class because seventh graders were offered two of three “electives”—music, homemaking for girls and shop for boys. No art class until eighth grade. Boo. Hiss.
I still have nightmares of trying to make baked Alaska for a class presentation. What? You don’t dump sugar into the egg whites all at once?
Then came sewing. We were to make simple shifts. I chose a white cotton duck fabric with a red, white and blue nautical theme. I actually wore it once or twice before it mysteriously disappeared.
The author. The artist. The dress.
Today Pegman ventures to Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Africa. Feel free to stroll around using the Street View or Photo Spheres until you find something that inspires you to write 150 words, then click the frog below and share your work with fellow contributors. Remember that reading and commenting on others’ work is part of the fun.
Thanks to Josh and Karen for hosting the challenge.
Genre: Factual Fiction
Word Count: 150
Yep. If they’re there I’ll find them. 😉
MOUNT SINAI
I’ve come to Tanzania from Canada to deliver a Torah scroll to a remote congregation. “Why not?” I said when asked if I’d like to go. “I’ve never been to Africa.”
Jelani’s dark cheeks glisten, “I was a child when Idi Amin’s henchmen destroyed our synagogue. My father wept. On his deathbed he grasped my hand and said, ‘Son promise me you will never forget who you are.” The sunlight outlines the golden star of David he wears around his neck.
The Torah is processed around the small synagogue. As it passes by, Jelani touches the scroll with the fringes hanging from his belt, then brings them to his lips with such reverence I weep.
Shivers surge through me as Yehuda Kahalani leads the kabballat Shabbat in an African chant. My pulse races. I add my voice to familiar prayers and songs. We are different. The words are the same.
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Click here to learn more of the actual story that fueled my fiction.
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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.
PHOTO PROMPT © C.E.Ayr
Yeah, I know, the frog’s not blue and the following story is a rerun (the story, not the photo) from March 2013. Hard to believe as of this month, I’ve been writing Friday Fictioneers stories for 8 years. Many writers have come and gone since then, but still there remains a handful of us die-hard FF’rs. Thanks for participating one and all.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
PACK RAT
Boxes overflowing with rusted ten-penny nails, camping equipment and car parts cluttered the garage. Judith hated the chaos, but other things got in the way of Greg’s promise to organize until the day he deserted her.
It took months to sort through the cardboard jungle.
Then she came across a crate with “Judith” painted on the lid. In it she found her class ring, his first speeding ticket and a bottle of cognac—same vintage they’d shared on their honeymoon.
A note in his uneven scrawl read,
“Damned cancer. Wish I were there to toast forty of my happiest years.”
Because today is Yom HaShoah…Holocaust Remembrance Day, I’m taking the liberty of sharing a few flash fictions I’ve written. These are only four out of many I’ve written concerning the subject. It’s not much, but it is my way of keeping the voices of the past alive. Like many Jewish people, I had relatives who perished under the Nazis. However I never knew their names or their faces. My mother told me my grandfather, who came here to escape the pogroms in Eastern Europe at the turn of the 20th century, had been trying to help some of his relatives escape Hitler. Sadly, communications ceased. For those I never knew, I write these stories as tribute. May we never forget.
אנו זוכר’ם
THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED
Katya played Chopin’s “Berceuse” on the imaginary piano in her coat pocket with trembling fingers. She tried to keep pace on the frozen path.
Without success, she tried to block out the image of her father, the cantor, lying in the street, his magnificent voice forever stilled. Latvia’s November wind whipped through her.
She remembered when Professor Philipp at the conservatory in Paris proclaimed, “Katya Abramis, you have an exquisite talent.”
“Schnell!”
A drunken soldier ripped an infant from a young mother’s arms and shot him. She dropped to her knees only to suffer the same fate as her son. The snow turned red beneath them.
“Shoes in this pile, clothes in that.”
Katya obeyed. What choice did she have?
Standing naked at the edge of a deep pit, Katya pictured her beloved synagogue and heard Papa sing “Lord of the World, Who was, Who is, Who is to come.”
There is little on the internet about Cantor Abram Abramis or his daughter Katya, renowned pianist of her time. Both perished in the 1941 Massacre in Riga. CLICK HERE for my source.
אנו זוכר’ם
COMMISSION NUMBER 3
Trina wasn’t forced to wear a yellow star like her friend Hanna, but she was ostracized by the other children who called her schwarz schimpanse.
One day a uniformed woman entered the classroom. “Trina Azikiwe, I’m here to take you to the doctor.
“I’m not sick.”
The officer dealt Trina’s cheek a stinging blow. “Silence, Rheinlandbastard!”
Trina would never forget the cruel procedure that rendered her forever childless or the doctor’s admonition. “Never have sexual relations with good Germans.”
Good Germans? There were none better than her golden-haired mother and handsome bronze father who perished for their ‘sin’ in Dachau.
אנו זוכר’ם
SHOAH
“Where’s Nadine?” I stamped my foot with childish impatience.
“The Juif doesn’t live here anymore.” The man hissed through pinched lips.
“Because of the Bosche?”
“No more questions.” The door slammed and he shouted from the other side. “Go away!”
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Seventy years later sunlight flickers on ocean waves at Saint-Marc. I walk along the deserted beach where Nadine and I gathered seashells and dreams.
“Martine, swim with me.”
Shielding my eyes, I search the rippling waters. Nadine beckons. I’m warmed by her smile…and the twelve-year-old girl who choked her last in Auschwitz’s Zyklon-B showers lives forever in my heart.
To learn more about Nadine click here.
Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
אנו זוכר’ם
SWINGJUGEND
In 1969 my mother packed me off to my aunt and uncle’s dairy farm in Wisconsin.
“But Mom, Uncle Otto’s weird. That eyepatch and those scars—ick.”
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One night he took my Jefferson Airplane record from the stereo and replaced it with his own 45.
“You tink das ist protest music?”
“‘It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing,’” He sang. “The SS ransacked our nightclub, but I danced all the way to Buchenwald.”
Uncle Otto taught me more than the jitterbug that summer.
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At his funeral last year I saluted my favorite uncle with, “Swing Heil!”
To those all who perished in the Holocaust, the heroes and the victims, I salute you! May your memories be a blessing.
Today Pegman travels to Roscanvel, Brittany. Your mission is to wander around using Google Street View until you find something that inspires you to write up to 150 words. When you’re satisfied, post a link to the InLinz site and share it with your fellow writers. Remember that reading and commenting on other posts is part of the experience.
Thanks to Josh and Karen for hosting What Pegman Saw. 😀
Click to the dancing frog to participate
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
LA CHAUMIÈRE DE DIVINE
The September breeze ruffled Paul’s hair as he paced the perimeter of the stone cottage, contemplating his losses.
“It is poetry, this place. Nothing like cruel Paris,” he’d told his companion and their two sons. “The clairvoyant was right. We will flourish here. Here we laugh, we cry; here we live, we die like legends.”
An infant’s squall rousted him from his musings. He hurried toward the sound. Entering the bedroom, he found his children’s mother cradling a newborn. She flashed a weary, yet jubilant smile. “Paul, say hello to your daughter.”
“La perfection!” Taking the little one in his arms, he marveled at her delicate features. “Created by the angels, sent by God. I shall call her Divine. What do you think?”
Almost as if she understood, Divine grasped his finger. He thrilled to her touch. “I am your father, Saint-Pol-Roux le magnifique. Ma princesse. Welcome to Divine’s Cottage.”
Poet Saint-Pol-Roux
Divine’s Cottage
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 Sammi’s Comment Section.
Summing it up in 24 words.
Older?
Yes.
Wiser?
Questionable.
Exploring possibilities
At my keyboard
At my easel
A dreamer?
Always and forever.
Obsolete?
Qui, moi?
Not by a longshot!
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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.
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
Click the Frog to Play Along!
Word Count: 100
I told myself I was going to give Historical Fiction a rest, but this story found me and begged to be shared. For those across the sea, let me introduce you to an American icon. (she should be)
AFTER A FASHION
The sun rose on New York’s horizon, Lena’s adopted city since immigrating from Lithuania in 1895, as a 16-year-old orphan. The baby on her soaking hip crammed his fist into his mouth and whimpered.
“Oy. My little pisher needs his vikileh changed.”
Once the deed was done she sat at her sewing machine, sleeping infant on her lap. She yawned. “No rest for weary Widow Bryant. Miss Feingold needs her wedding dress.”
Four years later, Lena opened her own shop. Thanks to the bank’s misspell on her loan, we now remember the designer of fashionable plus-size dresses as Lane Bryant.
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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 Sammi’s Comment Section.
With this being Passover week, my mind went to the Children of Israel wandering in the desert. Happy Easter or Passover to those who celebrate.
WADE IN THE WATER
Moses came to Joshua and Zilpah under the cloak of darkness and raised a staff. “You’ll be slaves in Egypt no more.”
Joshua hastily loaded a sack with tools they would need to set up a new home. Zilpah bundled their infant son.
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“We was nomads wandering in the wilderness,” Joshua reveled in his children’s shining dark faces, “when Miss Harriet Tubman—Black Moses—led us to freedom.”
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My view, tho' somewhat askew...
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Speech Language Pathologist, Writer, Blogger -- life, language, communication, a good laugh, hope, healing, and the grace of connection
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Paula Shablo
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