Life’s Ephemeral Nature

All posts in the Life’s Ephemeral Nature category

13 December 2019

Published December 11, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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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 © Mikhael Sublett

Give us a little click. 

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

KEEPSAKE

           Hadassah stood amid the ruins of her once elegantly furnished home.

           She ached for two-year-old Aaron who had been seized and taken to the gas chamber. Peter took a bullet trying to save their son.

Typhoid claimed thirteen-year-old Gittel hours before the liberation.

 

            Seven-year-old Gittel held out a piece of paper splotched with color.

            “What is it?”

            The child huffed. “Anyone can see it’s a butterfly.”  

            “Our daughter’s an artist.” Peter beamed. “I’ll frame it.”

 

            “How on earth…?” With a gasp, Hadassah dropped to her knees and pulled the unscathed picture from the rubble.  

            “I painted it for you, Mama.”

BIVOUAC

Published December 9, 2019 by rochellewisoff

This week Pegman takes us to Saskatchewan Canada. You may use the photo provided with the prompt or take to Google maps and search within the borders of Saskatchewan for your own inspiration.

Your mission is to write up to 150 words inspired by the prompt. You may contribute poetry, prose, or essay. Once your piece is polished share with others at the link up below. Reading and commenting on others work is part of the fun.

Click frogs to enter the campground. 

Thanks to Karen and Josh for hosting the challenge.

I chose this idyllic scene to revisit a flash fiction I wrote in July of 2012 when I was just one of the Friday Fictioneers gang. I added  50 words and a new title. Voila! 

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 150

BIVOUAC

           “I detest camping,” said Ella.

             Following a full day of hiking, two miles past the nearest service station, Geoff’s classic mustang stalled. Neither of their cell phones found a signal and the sun was setting. Resentment swelled her. Pain riddled her back and thighs as they’d hauled their gear to a nearby vacant cabin.

             “You told me you loved camping, El.”

             “I lied.”

              He massaged her swollen feet. “Look at this magnificent view. Not to mention you’re in the company of your personal physician.”

              How could she resist his brown-eyed, boyish pout?  That same look coaxed her into matrimony to the impoverished med student a year ago. “Yes, it’s beautiful. I only hope the folks who own this place don’t come and have us arrested.”

            “At least we don’t have to pitch the tent. See? Our luck’s about to change.”

            “More than you can imagine, doctor. My water just broke.”

 

 

EXCUSE THE DUST ON MY BLOUSE

Published December 8, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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.

136 words? That’s 36 more words than required in Friday Fictioneers. Naturally I’m compelled to share a flash fiction. Couple that with the fact that I read on Google this morning that this is the anniversary of the lady’s birth. Happy 155th Birthday, Camille Claudel!

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 136

EXCUSE THE DUST ON MY BLOUSE

         “It’s wrong for a girl to dirty her fingers in the mud.” Mère chided little Camille. “It’s against nature.”

          Auguste stroked his thick beard. “You are a wonderfully talented sculptor, Camille. Quite a talent indeed. I shall make you my apprentice—take your gift to new heights.”

            The nineteen year-old flushed. She couldn’t believe the great Rodin should consider her work worthy of his time.

            Now her mother would eat her words.

            Auguste pressed his lips against Camille’s neck. “You are as beautiful as you are gifted.”           

            She melted into his arms. “Mon cher professeur I love you.”

            “Alas I cannot leave my Rose.”   

            Mère fumed. “I always knew you’d bring us shame.”

            Camille left Auguste’s studio. Her work became her barricade against pain.

            One critic described her as “A revolt against nature: a woman genius.”

To know more CLICK

6 December 2019

Published December 4, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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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 © Fatima Fakier Deria

SWIM ALONG WITH FROGGIE -CLICK! 

Genre: Non-Fiction Out of Mind Experience

Word Count: 100

OUT THERE

Laps. Freestyle. I count backward from esreem v’arbah…backstroke, veintitres,…breaststroke, esreem v’shtayeem…and so on. The water’s rhythm sets my mind and spirit free. Free-flowing.

            Somewhere around shtem-esrey, I lose count and go into some sort of trance. A waking dream.  Keep swimming. Lights flash. Mirrors, as if on a carousel, spin about me. They reflect golden walls with Egyptian drawings. What side of the pool is this? Keep swimming. Gazing though the watery ceiling, I flip, change direction and dive under. Visions of nothing-in-particular bombard me.

            Gertrude was right. “When we are in the water, we are not in this world.”

* Note: I can’t explain what happened, I can only tell you that this happened recently on Monday, October 28. At least this is the best way I know how to describe it. 

Note 2: I count backward from 24 (3 sets of 24 actually, making it 72 lengths or 36 laps–a mile) alternating Hebrew with Spanish. It helps to keep me focused. 

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THE AMERICAN DREAM

Published December 1, 2019 by rochellewisoff

The Greenwood district was a thriving African-American community with luxury shops, restaurants, grocery stores, hotels, jewelry and clothing stores, movie theaters, barbershops and salons, a library, pool halls, nightclubs and offices for doctors, lawyers and dentists. It had its own school system, post office, a savings and loan bank, hospital, and bus and taxi service

This is an unusual prompt today because it’s focused on a specific time and place, and as such is sort of an experiment. We at Pegman encourage you to look into this mostly-forgotten tragedy and write something about it, but as always you can write anything about Tulsa that strikes your fancy.”

CLICK THE FROG TO READ AND COMMENT ON THE STORIES OF OTHERS (AND TO ADD YOUR LINK 😉 )

Thanks to Josh and Karen for hosting the Pegman Challenge. I couldn’t very well resist a challenge that includes history. My heart goes out to the people of Greenwood. I dream of a day we can appreciate each other’s differences instead of trying to snuff them out. 

The aftermath. 35 city blocks were razed to the ground.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 150

THE AMERICAN DREAM

I knew nothing of the so-called race riot that took over 300 lives in our district of Greenwood until 1996 when the Today Show ran a story. After seeing it on television, my 80-year-old grandfather agreed to let me interview him for a school report.

            “You must understand,” he squeezed my hand, “my memories are those of a five-year-old.”

            I poised my pen over my notepad. “Go on, Poppy.”

            His faded gaze looked past me. “Four men ran toward the house with guns and lighted torches. Bam! My daddy fell.” A tear streamed down a crevice of Poppy’s leathered cheek.

            “Mama yelled to us kids, ‘get up under the bed.’ Which we did. My sister clapped her hand over my mouth when one of the men tromped on my finger. I can still feel it. They set fire to the curtains. Life as we knew it went up in smoke.”

29 November 2019

Published November 27, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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Happy Anniversary to Jan Fields, my first husband for 48 years as of November 28!

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

 

CLICK ON THE FROG TO JOIN

Genre: Historical Fiction circa late 1800’s

Word Count: 100

DIRECT OUR PATHS

“Dear Lord, we thank you for the bounty we are about to receive…for the Pilgrims and their faith…the first Thanksgiving…”

Folding her hands, ten-year-old Wawatseka renamed Victoria by her teachers, shut her eyes while Reverend Prichard droned on.

Grandfather’s stories wafted through her mind—a distant memory. “They feasted after each massacre of our people.”

Wawatseka’s ears ached for Mother’s songs and Father’s drumbeats.  Detesting white gravy and mashed potatoes, Wawatseka longed for savory corn stew.

Thick fingers thumped her head. “Victoria! We’ve finished grace. What do you say?”

She glared at the reverend and, through clenched teeth, whispered, “Amen.”

WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT – LONGEVITY

Published November 23, 2019 by rochellewisoff

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.

Although it doesn’t always, my title does factor into my word count this week. 

My little attendants have grandchildren of their own.

Happy Anniversary to Jan Fields, my first husband for 48 years as of November 28!

LONGEVITY

“He’s too wild. She’s only 18 and he’s 25. I give it six months.” My mother told her friends. To me she repeated, “If things don’t work out you still have a bed here.”

The day I announced my first pregnancy her invitations changed to, “You made your bed, now you can lie in it.”

48 years, three sons and two granddaughters later, I still wake up in my bed next to my wild man.

Jan.

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