17 November 2017

Published November 15, 2017 by rochellewisoff

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PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

LAST RITES

Grandma Tollard met Jeannie at the front door, her long grey hair askew. She seized Jeannie’s arm with one bony hand. “Thank you for coming, dear.”

“What happened?”

“I…we, that is…he…he had a heart attack and—”

“Did you call 911?”

“—he’s dead. I called Fr. Jenson.”

Grandma clutched her lace peignoir robe at the neck and led Jeannie to the bedroom. Biting her quivering lip, Jeannie pulled the sheet over her grandfather’s grinning countenance.

She wrapped a comforting arm around her weeping grandmother.

Grandma sniffed. “I’ll never forget his final words to me.”

“What were they?”

“‘Hi-ho Silver!’”

Many thanks to my BFF Jeannie O’Hare for her generosity in allowing me to share her strange but true family stories. Some things just can’t be made up…but they can be embellished.

Jeannie and me

To hear my interview on Impact USA radio last week CLICK HERE

10 November 2017

Published November 8, 2017 by rochellewisoff

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PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

FOR THE DEAD AND THE LIVING, WE MUST BEAR WITNESS *

I remember it like it was yesterday—November 9, 1963 in Chicago, my father took me downtown to celebrate my 10^th birthday.

His German accent sounded like music. “Vhere shall ve go, schatzi?”

“The Art Institute.”

I skipped along the sidewalk, holding his hand. He stopped and went to his knees in front of a synagogue. Slipping off his hat, he covered his face. The sun limned his blond waves.

“What’s wrong, Vati?”

“Meine Schande. Those magnificent windows—shattered! 25 years ago today. Schweinehund! Jewish businesses—destroyed! What did I do? Die Nill! I—I stood by and did nothing.”

*Quote from Elie Wiesel

79 years ago this week.

LEGACY

Published November 5, 2017 by rochellewisoff

Today Pegman walks through Córdoba, Argentina.

Feel free to stroll around the area using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post. Use it to inspire you however you like. We ask that as a token of respect for your readers that you keep your piece to 150 words or less.

To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:

I didn’t think I’d have time to write for Pegman this week, but when the muse says “write it” I must obey. This week marks the 79th anniversary of Kristallnacht so it’s where my mind and heart went this week. The following story is based on the experience many Jewish descendants (myself included) have had.

Shalom

This picture from the Cordoba, Argentina speaks ‘olive branch of peace’ to me.

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 150

LEGACY

Rosita’s grandparents had managed to survive Ravensbrück and Auschwitz. In 1945 they immigrated to South America where they built a new life. Ingrid’s grandfather emigrated from Germany the same year.

With a myriad of conflicting emotions, Rosita watched the newscast beside her best friend. A bunker had been unearthed in the Argentinian jungle loaded with Nazi artifacts, not too far away.

Although the apprehension of war criminals in Argentina was hardly news to the twenty-year-old college student, the discovery of the hideout unearthed a hidden truth. The direct descendant of one of her grandparents’ torturers now begged for absolution.

“Lo siento con todo mi corazón,” said Ingrid, her fair cheeks wet with tears streaming from her ocean-blue eyes.

What an esqueleto to tumble from the armario. Rosita’s heart ached for her friend who was as much a victim as the Jews. What could she say?

“Perdono con todo mi corazón.”

Glossary:

Lo siento con todo mi corazon. – I’m sorry with all of my heart.

Esqueleto – skeleton

Armario – Closet

Perdono con todo mi corazon. – I forgive with all of my heart.

3 November 2017

Published November 1, 2017 by rochellewisoff

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PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Ann Hall

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Once more another excerpt from my trilogy as I prepare the coffee table companion book, A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY. Designed for those who like art and very short stories. 😉 This is an excerpt from the third in the series, AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN. A little background for those unfamiliar. The menorah in the story is a ‘character’ of sorts. Crafted by Yussel’s father, it has survived the pogroms and the long journey to America.

Genre: Historical Fiction circa 1907

Word Count: 100

FAMILY HEIRLOOM

Arel scowled. “Lev, where’ve you been?”

“The library, I—”

“You missed supper.”

Havah grasped Arel’s arm and whispered, “Please let him explain.”

“My house. My rules.” Arel slapped Lev, knocking Yussel’s menorah off the table.

The ground listed beneath Havah’s feet.

Lev gasped.

Yussel cried out, dropped to his knees and searched with trembling hands until he found the broken pieces. He hugged them to his chest. Tears quivered in his sightless eyes.

“It’s only one branch, Papa.” Havah knelt beside him. “Surely it can be fixed.”

“Once a limb is severed can the tree be made whole again?”

Arel Gitterman

Mrs. Havah Gitterman

Coming soon!

RIGHTEOUS AMONG NATIONS

Published October 21, 2017 by rochellewisoff

Today Pegman ventures to the Balkans to spend some time in Bulgaria. Feel free to use the prompt to inspire you in any way you see fit, be it historical fiction, poetry, a personal narrative, fantasy or whatever you like. The only requirement is to keep your post to 150 words or less as a gesture of respect for your readers.

Today, thanks to J Hardy Carroll and K Rawson, I’ve learned another bit of WWII Jewish history I didn’t know.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 150

RIGHTEOUS AMONG NATIONS

My grandmother and I strolled beside the spring, arm in arm. We’d had a picnic, just the two of us, to celebrate her 80^th birthday and my 13^th.

“I wish my Papa could’ve been here to enjoy your Bar Mitzvah. He was a rabbi, you know.”

“I know, Nana.”

“So I’ve told you.”

With her intense dark eyes she could take you captive until she decided to let you go. I didn’t mind.

Tears trickled down her weathered cheeks. “They closed the Jewish schools. We wore yellow stars. March 9, 1943, my 13th^th birthday. They rounded us up like cattle. We waited to be deported. It was inevitable. I would never see my beloved papa again. He held me and wept like a child. Then the miracle happened—”

“At the last minute Dimitar Peshev, the Vice President of the Bulgarian Parliament, got the order reversed.”

“So I’ve told you.”

From Wikipedia, After the war, the Communists brought forth charges on the Old Bulgarian Parliament for collaboration with the Germans. Peshev was tried for being both an anti-Semite and anti-Communist and was even accused of having been bribed by the Jews in exchange for halting the deportation.^[2] However, his Jewish friends from the Kyustendil delegation, led by Joseph Nissim Yasharoff, testified on his behalf and saved him from a death sentence. He was sentenced to 15 years of imprisonment but was released after one year.

20 October 2017

Published October 18, 2017 by rochellewisoff

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PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

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This is a scene from AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN, the third in my Havah Cohen Gitterman trilogy. By the third book, the characters have survived the hardships of Eastern European persecution. Many of them are dealing with what we know today as PTSD. This scene takes place in 1907 when little was known, much less addressed.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

AMNESIA

“All these years the only thing I remembered was her suicide. I’ve hated her for it,” Shayndel shuddered. “How could I forget why?”

“You were only five,” whispered Fruma Ya’el. “It’s understandable—”

Shayndel buried her head in her hands. “‘Jew bitch,’ they called her. ‘Get help!’ she begged me. But I couldn’t move. I—I watched as they—”

Protracted memories riddled Shayndel. “Bayla never spoke again—until the morning she…she climbed the tree in the yard to the highest branch. Naked. Great with child. She spread her arms, smiled at me and said,” Shayndel choked, “‘Goodbye, little sister.’”

Shayndel in Kansas City – Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff

Bayla Gitterman, age 14- Orignal Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Fruma Ya’el -Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Shayndel Gitterman Abromovich – Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Fruma Ya’el in Kansas City – Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

UNRESOLVED

Published October 15, 2017 by rochellewisoff

This week Pegman is on the lush tropical island of Mauritius. WHAT PEGMAN SAW is a growing prompt challenge hosted by the talented writing team of Rawson and Carroll whom I appreciate as time goes by.

Link to this week’s stories here:

As I began my research trail on the Island of Mauritius, I was led far afield by a documentary on the History channel. 😉 Blame it on my husband who turned it on. The photo I chose is from Mauritius, but that’s as close as I came.

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 150

UNRESOLVED

“Look, Vovô. I bring a present for you,” Marina held up a glistening seashell.

Clarence hoisted his great-granddaughter onto his lap, took the shell from her and kissed the top of her head. “Belíssimo, like you, my little mermaid.”

“Tell me a story, Vovô. About when you and Tio John stole away from the island on the big rock.”

“1962.” He gazed at the sea and squinted at the setting sun, a brilliant ball against the amber sky, reflecting off the waves. “A whole lifetime ago.”

“Two lifetimes. Nearly fifty years.” Clarence’s brother John sank into a beach chair beside them. “Wonder if they still remember us. Wish we’d had a chance to say goodbye.”

“I shore do miss Mama’s fried chicken, ain’t nothin’ in Brazil holds a candle to it.” Clarence could still hear the prison bars clank behind him. He pressed his cheek against Marina’s. “Inescapable Alcatraz. Ha!”

*

Anglin Brothers in 1960

Could this be them in Brazil in 1972?

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COUNTRY ROADS

Published October 8, 2017 by rochellewisoff

This week Pegman returns to the Western Hemisphere to take us on a tour of Littleton, West Virginia. Although I missed the challenge last week, a story formed pretty quickly for this one. I’m a day late and see that this group is growing. Nice to see. Thanks to Karen and Josh for hosting. I so appreciate the two of you on more than one level. 😉

To enjoy this week’s stories or to submit your own, visit the inLinkz button:

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 150

This story is dedicated to the forgotten veterans, the women who unassumingly served as nurses and ‘Donut Dollies.’

COUNTRY ROADS

“My dearest Jimmy,

Remember 1971? We came home from Vietnam that year—the same year John Denver’s song became a hit. I think he must’ve written it with you in mind.

‘Littleton,’ you laughed, your eyes shining like the stars over the Shenandoah River. ‘It’s just a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere.’

Nonetheless, to you it was home…’almost heaven’.”

Sharon set aside her pen and paper. Picking up Jimmy’s guitar, she strummed the melody and sang, “…West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountain…” She closed her eyes. “Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains…”

A gentle breeze riffled her hair. “You promised to bring me here after the war. And so you have.”

She folded the note, tucked it inside the guitar and propped it against his headstone. Forever she would carry his face and hear his last words, “Nurse, please don’t let me die.”

*

In this image provided by the U.S. Army, the 2nd Brigade was faced with a new problem at their Bien Hoa, Vietnam base: from Fort Rilay to Vietnam come the 93rd Evacuation Hospital complete with nurses on Dec. 19, 1965. The problem of getting a private shower for the girls fell to Company B 1st Engineer Battalion. In the interests of the health, welfare and cleanliness of the nurses, the men of Company B decided to give up their own air-conditioned shower. The dressing area of the shower was boarded up and the entrance-way closed off. An appropriate “Off Limits” sign was made and posted. (AP Photo/U.S. Army)

6 October 2017

Published October 4, 2017 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.

This lovely photo shows the moon rising over the trees as viewed from a ferry boat. What story does it tell you? Can you share it in 100 words or less?

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

FULL MOON FEVER

“The year I turned 10,” he lay back in his hospital bed, staring at his bandaged hand, “my uncle invited me to the movie set. I’ll never forget it. There he was. The King. At that moment I knew what I wanted to be.”

“A rock star with a nasty temper?” The nurse adjusted his IV. “The morphine should kick in soon.”

His fingers throbbed. “The doc says I broke five bones and I might never play guitar again.”

The nurse’s eyes brimmed. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Petty.”

“Don’t be.” He murmured as he drifted off. “I won’t back down.”

*

The story in his own words:

NO MORE DANCES WITH MARY JANE

R.I.P. TOM

29 September 2017

Published September 27, 2017 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.

With its battered tin roof it looks like an old warehouse that has been abandoned. The windows aren’t broken and the concrete walls look rough. What story does this old shell of a building with its brick chimney tell you? Can you tell the rest of us in 100 words?

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

RADIUM DIAL

“Jinny was barely growed. 1914-1934” Her lower lip quivered as she traced the dates on the headstone with a frail finger. “She earned $17.50 a week painting them glow-in-the-dark clock numbers.”

Wind gusting across St. Columbus Cemetery chilled me. “Let’s get you home, Mrs. Abbot.”

“Not yet. I want you to see.” She seethed and brandished a Geiger counter probe over her sister’s grave. “Jinny took sick. Strange. Her jaws done crumbled. Died like the other girls at her factory. The doctors made lame excuses. Damned liars is what they was.” The machine sputtered. “That sound like Diphtheria to you?”

*