Life’s Ephemeral Nature

All posts in the Life’s Ephemeral Nature category

WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT – IMPERIOUS

Published January 25, 2020 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.

 

TASKMASTER

 Gazing out the window, she remembers the carefree days before her indenturing. Soft bed. Fresh linens. Stylish clothes.

The twinkling stars mock her and the man in the moon laughs in her face.

“I’m a slave to an imperious, self-centered, bald tyrant. He owns me. His every wish is my command. His every need is my assignment.”

She falls wearily into bed, hoping for a few hours of unfettered slumber. Drifting off, she dreams of parties, plays and concerts until a shrill demand shatters her peace.

“Coming master.”

She settles into a rocking chair and bundles her ten-pound taskmaster to her breast. Before latching, he flashes his first smile. Her pulse races “You own me, my son and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

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©Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – The baby in this picture is actually a girl and she is me. 😉

24 January 2020

Published January 22, 2020 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 © Na’ama Yehuda

Click Frog and Enjoy! 

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

TRIBUTE IN CHOCOLATE, VANILLA AND COFFEE

“Rose, try my new flavor. It’ll be a sensation!” Reuben Mattus scooped a white dollop into a bowl. “How fortuitous that my injection pump should malfunction.”

            “Nu?” His wife looked up from her ledger. “It’s vanilla ice cream. You’ve been making it for over forty years.”           

            “Not like this.

            The dense confection sent shivers of delight through her. “Oy, you’re right.”

           “What do you think of Häagen-Dazs for a name?”

           “What’s it mean?”

            He shrugged. “Nothing. But it sounds Danish.”

           “Why Danish?”

           “To thank Denmark for its kind protection of our people from that mamzer who called himself the Führer.”  

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WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT – ANEW

Published January 18, 2020 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.

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Writing is a living, breathing organism, isn’t it? That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. 😉 

ORIGINAL ARTWORK Rochelle Wisoff-Fields….an illustration from A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY

My novel’s been proofed and Beta read.

My Agent loves it.

Partnership with Asher and his Bear Starfire is suspended.

Another story beckons.

The dance begins anew with Elise and Annie.

17 January 2020

Published January 15, 2020 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 © J Hardy Carroll

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

STRENGTH IN EACH TEAR

Lula cuddled and sang to her two-year-old son. The doctor’s words echoed through her mind. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do. You need a miracle.”

            The screaming prayers of the itinerate preacher beseeching God for a miracle only served to add to Lula’s sorrow. Her baby would never enjoy the beauty of a red rose or a blue sky. Born too soon, the incubator stole his sight.

            “Don’t you worry. We’ll make our own miracle.”  

            Ten years later, Barry Gordy dubbed Lula’s boy Little Stevie Wonder, saying, “Mrs. Morris, your son’s musical gift is nothing short of a miracle.”

WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT- DEVOUR

Published January 11, 2020 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

This morning I’m taking the liberty of rerunning a Friday Fictioneers story from November of 2016. It’s historical fiction, a bit embellished perhaps…but, hey, that’s the fiction part. I added 8 words to meet the word count. (Title not included 😉 ) 

“…it was intended to be the Mercury theater’s own version of dressing up in a sheet and jumping out of a bush and saying, ‘Boo!’ Starting now we couldn’t soap all your windows and steal your garden gates by tomorrow night so we did the next best thing.” Orson Welles, October 30,1938

THE NIGHT AMERICA TREMBLED

            In 1938 my dad sprang for a new RCA Victor 7K1 console.

            The radio took a prominent place in our home. President Roosevelt’s voice filled our living room. I loved Charlie McCarthy. My sister adored Bing Crosby and soap operas like Our Gal Sunday

            One night, putting the finishing touches on my Halloween costume, mom turned the dial. “Stardust, Ramon Raquello and his orchestra.”

            I rolled my eyes. “Boring.”

            A panicked voice interrupted. “Ladies and gentlemen this is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever witnessed…”

            We cowered, believing, as many Americans did, invaders from Mars had landed.

            What a pity they weren’t real and didn’t devour the Reichstag.

WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT – LOLLYGAG

Published January 4, 2020 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 the Sammi’s Comment Section.

MY SHINING PALACE BUILT ON SAND

“My candle burns at both ends,” wrote the poet.

I’ll permit neither frustration nor self-doubt to devour me when my compositions seem to go unnoticed. I’ll neither lollygag nor let my keyboard collect dust. No! I’ll last the night and live to write another day. Whether you see it or not, foes or friends, my candle gives a lovely light.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

*Title not included in word count. 😉

* Hint Hint: If you’d care to read something longer please visit my latest story entitled “1942.”

1942

Published January 3, 2020 by rochellewisoff

The following story is written for the following photo prompt provided by Writers Unite!  for their Write the Story  short story challenge. All photos used by WU are public domain and require to attribution. However the story is © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 😉

1942

             When Sylvia uttered, “Hail Mary full of Grace…,” she saw Sister Honorina. With her white veil, blue eyes and round face, she resembled the paintings of the Blessed Virgin with Baby Jesus hanging on the wall of the dormitory Sylvia shared with seven other girls.   

            After praying the Rosary with Sylvia in her gentle Viennese-accented voice, Sister Honorina added the shema. “I promised to your father never to let you forget the words of your ancestors. We say them together now.”

             Sylvia recited the prayer in unison with Sister Honorina both in Hebrew and English exactly the way Papa did. “‘Shema yis’ra’el, Adonai Eloheynu, Adonai echad. Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.’”

            “Sehr gut. Your Papa, he would be so proud.”

            “When are he and Momma coming back for me?”

            Tears welled up in the nun’s eyes. She dabbed them with her sleeve. “We must leave it in God’s hands.” Tucking Sylvia’s Teddy bear in beside her, Sister Honorina kissed the child’s forehead. “Sleep now, kleine schvester.

            Sylvia curled up on her side, hugging her bear. Frost formed intricate patterns on the window. The way the streetlight outside the convent illuminated them fascinated the eight-year-old. She remembered Papa’s stories about frost-faeries with icicle paint brushes. Closing her eyes, she heard Momma and Papa.

            Momma sounded angry. “You’re filling her head with stuff and nonsense. How’s this equipping her to face a world filled with discord and oppression, Aaron? How?”

            “Esther, she’s only six.”

            “You don’t hear the news? Six-year-olds are being slaughtered in their beds. Babies murdered in their mothers’ arms. No synagogue is safe. No Jewish market. Just like my grandparents in Poland. How long before they throw rocks through our windows?”

            “We’re an enlightened society, Esther. Consider our technological advances. Never again. The pogroms aren’t going to happen here.”

            “My Aaron, the scientist. My Prince Charming who still believes in fairytales. I love you, but you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

            Sylvia shivered and pulled the covers over her head. It happened a year ago. A year after her parents’ argument. Momma’s frightening predictions came true. Sylvia saw their beloved cantor beaten to death—right in the shul, the words of the Kaddish Shalem on his lips. She could still smell the sulfur odor that hung in the air—hear the screams and moans of the dying.

            By some miracle, Sylvia and her parents escaped that Shabbos day, the day the Shoah began in earnest. Many of their neighbors had already gone into hiding. Momma and Papa decided it would be safer for Sylvia to place her with Christians. With her blonde hair and blue eyes, she might escape being pegged as a Jew.

            Papa carried her in his strong arms. He smelled of aftershave and chocolate. His heart thumped against her chest. “You will do what the sisters tell you, Silver Girl, do you understand? Even when you think it’s strange.”

            “We will take good care of her, Mr. and Mrs. Green.” Sister Honorina reached for Sylvia. “We’ll allow no harm to come to her.”

            “How can you say that?” Momma stroked Sylvia’s hair. “How can anyone in this godforsaken country make such a promise?”

            Tears streamed down Papa’s stubbled cheek. “Never forget who you are, my daughter.” He placed her in Sister Honorina’s arms. “We’ll be back soon, sweetheart.”

            Momma covered her mouth with her gloved hand. “Oh Aaron.”

            Sylvia reached for Papa. “Pinkie swear?”

            His lips trembled. He engulfed her pinkie finger in his. “As the frost-faeries are my witness.”

            March wind swooshed outside the convent. In the beds across the aisle Elizabeth Nusbaum and Naomi Resnick who were both twelve spoke in stage whispers.

            “Naomi, do you think they took our parents to the death camps?”

            “Probably.” 

            “Girls, shh.” Sister Honorina shone her flashlight on them. “This is not the time to speak of such things.”

            “Seriously? When do we talk about it? After another six million have perished?” Elizabeth bolted upright. “It’s 1942 all over again. I saw it on CNN. There are camps in Colorado and Arizona and more being constructed in New Mexico.”     

  

                

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