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Clarabella climbed onto Alfred’s lap. “Tell me about Jacob, Grandad.”
“I was a lad in 1842, not quite nineteen, serving with the Coldstream Guard in the Canadian colonies. One of me mates had rescued a goose from a fox whilst on sentry duty. After that, the bird made himself quite at home, so we named him Jacob.”
Clarabella clapped her hands. “One night, Jacob spied some French rebels sneaking through the snow to attack. He squawked and flew at them. Your regiment showed their gratitude by making hiim an officer.”
“I’ve told you this story before, haven’t I?”
“O-Yes, Grandad.”
Some things you just can’t make up. CLICK HERE to meet the real Jacob
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So begins my annual Sibling Revelry vacation . 😉 You can click on the link to see what it’s like. The pictures I take this year will be pretty much the same as last year, beach, sister-in-law, brother and fur babies.
With the Summer Olympics in the forefront, I went with a story about an Olympian I’d never heard for before. A swimmer, of course.
Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH
“Lay down. You are sick,” said Dad.
“But I’m not—”
“Do as I say!”
When they came for her, Dad told the Pro-Nazi Arrow Crossman, “She is the swimming champion of Hungary, and one day you will be happy you saved her life.”
“She’s a Jew.” The officer’s eyes flashed—one brown, one gray. Yet, he let her live.
In 1950 Eva Szekely won a gold medal for the 100m freestyle on Margaret Island in Budapest. A special prize was presented by the major of the communist political police. He smiled at her, eyes shining—one brown, one gray.
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.
Tears streamed from my papa’s eyes, soaking his beard. “For this we fled Russia—to be slaughtered in Wales?”
I trembled. Last night I’d hidden under my bed, covering my ears to blot out angry shouts and the crash of shattering glass.
“Thank the Almighty we are alive,” said Mama.
“Ha! If God lived on the earth, the goyim would break His windows, too.”
At that moment a Christian youth entered our tailor shop, head bowed, and handed Papa a banknote. “Father sends his apologies.” The boy took a broom from the floor. “Perhaps we can help rebuild.”
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.
“It was a matter of time,” I told Lois. “The man was evil personified. He cast a dark shadow on everything and everyone. It boiled down to where and when.”
Lois looked up from her register. “How did you end up doing it?”
“Derringer at close range.”
A gasp interrupted our conversation. I turned to see a blue-haired lady clutching a cantaloupe, her eyes wide and mouth agape.
Busted! My cheeks blazed. I flashed a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone else was listening.”
“Not to worry,” Lois pointed at me. “She’s just a crazy writer.”
It’s not exactly fiction. An author needs to be careful what she says in public. 😉 Believe me, this character really did need killing.
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.
Genre: Humor if it weren’t so true. Word Count: 100
MOMENT OF TRUTH
The menacing scale in my doctor’s office looms before me. Every six months I’m forced to face the numbers.
I’m sure I’ve gained thirty pounds since my last visit.
Mom would say, “Forget about the number. How do your clothes fit?”
Nurse Godzilla, clipboard in hand, urges me to step up.
The accusing voice in my head screams. “Hippo!”
This is ridiculous. I’m making myself crazy. Will the voices ever still?
Holding my breath, eyes shut, I ascend the monster. Opening my eyes, I’m surprised to see I’ve lost a pound since last time. I grin. I’m safe…until next time.
LAST DANCE WITH ANNIE is available to order in hardback, paperback or ebook, HERE, HERE, and HERE! Also available on Amazon Canada, Australia, UK, Germany and New Zealand. 😉
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 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.
Tony, Elise’s husband, had never considered himself a candidate for therapy. He’d always believed all that psychobabble was hogwash and hooey. However, since he’d met Dr. Hank Rogers at the verteran’s support group meetings, his opinions had begun to change.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE AND WELCOME HOME
Tony had great respect for Hank, a Vietnam veteran who’d lost both legs in battle. He was the recipient of two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, and a Distinguished Service Cross.
At their first meeting, trying not to stare at the therapist’s stumps, Tony focused on the medals in their shadow box. “You must have some stories to tell.”
“You bet, but we’re not here to discuss my service history, Chief. Surely you have a few medals of your own. Nightmares?”
“I see how it is.” Tony had bristled. “What’s this gonna cost me, Doc?”
“Nothing, save some emotional baggage.”
All Versions are availabe for preorder HERE. Official release date June 4! and if you’re in the area:
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.
My father was a cook by trade and a baker by passion.
There was nothing he loved more than cooking for a crowd or creating delicious desserts. Pineapple cheese pecan pie was his signature dish. It’s my decided opinion that the Philadelphia cream cheese company owes him for the publicity. In fact, as I was giving birth to my third son, Dear Old Dad was outside the door feeding the nurses cherry-cream-cheese muffins.
At his funeral a year later, the young rabbi delivered a beautiful eulogy.
I couldn’t help but think, “If Dad were here, he’d bake her a pie.”
My dad is the reason I became a cake decorator. We took a class together. I surprised him with this cake on his 65th birthday. 😀
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.
Happy May, Everyone! It seems whatever issues WP has had with sign ins and commentors continues. I had a few comments from Annonymous last week. I noticed also that I’m not the only one. A few times I’ve had to sign back in to leave a comment. It is rather irritating. If you could leave your name it would be helpful. Thank you.
Genre: Coming of Age Word Count: 100
MUZAK TO MY EARS
In my teens I was a raving Beatles fan. Oh, the memories each of their songs evokes from different stages of my adolescence.
I still have my collection of vinyl 45 rpm records. Not familiar? Look them up. No time to elaborate in one hundred words.
One afternoon my mother came into my room as I was rocking to “I am the Walrus.” With a disgusted look she said, “You only tell yourself you like that dreck.”
Seriously I still love the crazy cacophony.
Imagine my surprise the other day when I heard it as background music in the supermarket.
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Last Dance With Annie, by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, will be available June 4th in paperback, hardcover, and ebook. Preorder on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and more!
“Much flows through the pages of “Last Dance” and all of it is worth reading. In this well-written, poignant story, Wisoff-Fields offers the reader a front row seat into less-spoken-of and rarely seen realities of lives weighted by years of expectation, exploitation, secrecy, trauma, and turmoil; but also to the powers of love, truth, and creativity to offer healing and feed hope. As Elise and those around her lose, then seek to find their step, we weep with, cheer for, and dance with them. Hurrah, Rochelle, for a story well told!”
Na’ama Yehuda, MSC SLP (Author: Communicating Trauma, Emilia, Outlawed Hope, Apples in Applath)