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.
The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from my Cuzzin Kent 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.
In Rowena’s thirty-eighth year the flashbacks started. One by one, memories from her childhood surfaced like debris in a whirlpool. Among them were the uncle who molested her and the neighbor who raped her then threatened her with worse if she told. Both happened before her twelfth birthday.
To punish her body for its betrayal, she starved it. Reduced to bone and thinning skin, her defense against pain became her prison.
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.
The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from C.E.Ayr If you’re one of those who wrote a story for this prompt feel free to re-post it and enjoy the respite. The photo is from Rich Voza. Remember that all photos are private property and subject to copyright. Use other than Friday Fictioneers by permission only.
I’m really pleased that C.E. chose this particular prompt. It’s one of my all time favorites, not because of the photo itself but because of what it meant to me. I am posting two stories with permission from Doug MacIlroy who is currently MIA and says, “Tell the FF gang I said hello and that I wish them well and that like a relative of mine once said, ‘I shall return’.”
When Doug shared his abbreviated story with me via email in February 2013 I asked what he thought about my writing the partner story. Between iPhone texts and photos we worked to make our stories exactly 200 words between the two of them. It was a labor of love and a magical experience in writing. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.
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.
A few times this week I found myself scrolling through blog posts to get to the story. Please make sure it’s your STORY PAGE URL than you link. Thank you.
Slouching on the bench, sixteen-year-old Ed clutched a train ticket, his dreams of being a Great War hero dashed. He hadn’t realized the draft board doctor would require a birth certificate.
“Where ya headed, kid?” asked the stubble-cheeked man next to him.
“Port Chester, New York.”
“Never heard of it. What’s there?”
“Home.” Ed traced a floor tile with his toe. “Dad’s gonna beat the hell out of me for running off. He says I’ll never amount to anything.”
***
Hours later, tears lined Peter Sullivan’s face as he joyfully welcomed his son, the future television show host, with open arms.
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.
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.”
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 make an effort to stay within the suggested word count. While 50 to 100 words over the limit might not seem like much to the writer, in the context of reading up a hundred stories, it’s a little inconsiderate. Use your imagination and pare it down. It can be done and you might be surprised at how few words you need to create a scene or tell a story.
“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.
Many of you will remember this prompt. It’s one of my first as Friday Fictioneers Fairy Blog Mother. This week I feel the need to direct my writing energy to another project so I’m falling back on a re-run. It’s one of my favorite photos and stories from nearly four years ago. Looking back on the link from that prompt I see that quite a few of you wrote stories for it. Thank you for sticking with it. ❤ Feel free to take a break or write another story.
Genre: (hopefully not) Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
A WELL-ORDERED LIFE
Prototypical milquetoast, Benjamin Parker wore bow ties and kept to himself.
Three days of no-call, no-show to work passed before anyone missed him enough to call the police.
When we broke into his immaculate apartment we found his pajama-clad body in bed. There were no signs of foul play.
Jars filled with things like batteries, safety pins, wine corks and matchbooks lined cabinets and counter-tops.
“Quite the collector. Wonder if he jarred his tidy whities.” I flung open the closet door and choked. “What the—?”
In single file on the top shelf human heads floated in name-tagged gallon jars.
***
This coming Sunday, March 6, I’ll be interviewed on local TV at 7:50 AM CST. It will be streamed live here. Click the red new button and then “Live Streaming.”
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. 😉
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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