They sat at the kitchen table, a bag of pretzels between them. Light from the old-fashioned lamps cast a warm glow in the room. Shelly savored the salt on her tongue, then sipped her Cabernet.
“It’s so romantic, isn’t it?” She moved her book closer to the light. “Dontcha love it?”
Jon turned the page of his magazine. “Not the best reading light.”
“Must you be so negative? Remember, ‘It’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness.’”
“Thank you, Eleanor Roosevelt.” He frowned. “I’ll stop cursing the darkness when the power’s restored and the TV comes back on.”
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: Hysterical Fiction (Wow, what a rush!) Word Count: 100
If this is phto and story’s deja vu for you, it’s true. This is a rerun of a rerun. I wrote it in 2013 and posted it again in 2016 for the same reason I’m posting it this week. It has been an incredibly busy week and my muse is flat comatose. Since the high holidays are upon us, I take liberty…because I can.
If you’ve posted a story for this photo before, feel free to give yourself a break and post it again. Hey. It’s been 6 years. 😉Who’s going to remember it? Right? Of course, right!
ASHAMNU
Rhoda cast furtive glances in all directions, inhaled throat-burning smoke, held it, and then exhaled, handing the joint to Marcus.
“Don’t be so paranoid.” His bloodshot eyes glittered.
Candles illuminated the corners of his darkened bedroom. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida blared from the stereo and patchouli incense tickled her nose.
After they’d downed an entire bag of chips, Marcus plopped his yarmulke on his head.
“So much for fasting. Let’s get back before they miss us.”
Side-by-side they sneaked into the synagogue and giggled through repentance prayers.
Every year afterward, when Rhoda dutifully attended services, she chuckled as she recalled the “High” Holiday.
The Ashamnu is a traditional prayer of repentance recited on Yom Kippur, the Jewish highest of holy days or day of atonement. The word “ah-SHAM-nu” means we are guilty or we have sinned.
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 space was no bigger than a closet,” said Hannah. “Only room for six of us to hide at once.”
“Were you scared, Bubbie?” asked eleven-year-old Corrie.
“Oy! So scared! I had claustrophobia. But as much as small spaces scared me, the Gestapo scared me more.”
“Did you have to stay there for hours at a time?”
“Only when the family had—visitors. Other times we children were free to play and sing. We even celebrated Hanukkah with potato latkes and presents. The Ten-Booms, such wonderful people.”
“I’m named after Corrie Ten-Boom, aren’t I?”
“Ja. May her memory be blessed.”
To learn about this very special lady and her family CLICK HERE
*********
This past week I’ve finally gotten around to opening an Etsy shop to market my note cards. Please CLICK HERE to come by and browse. There are many more entries to upload before it the shop’s “complete.” 😉
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.
Naomi hadn’t seen the scenic deutsche Stadt in fifty years. The synagogue had been replaced by a church. Although some shops still existed, her childhood home did not.
She swallowed. “I was ten. Momma gave me a sack of her homemade macaroons for the long journey. She told me, ‘You’ll be safe with Aunt Gertie and Uncle Norman in New York.’
“Poppa crushed me in his strong arms. ‘Momma and I will come for you soon. You’ll see.’
“From the ship I watched them grow smaller and smaller.
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.
“You’re opening a Chinese restaurant, Pop?” Noriyuki looked up from his homework. “But we’re Japanese.”
“The camps certainly taught me that.” Tamaru shrugged. “Chinese. Japanese. We all look alike to them. Let’s go to the movies.”
Noriyuki stretched his legs. After spending his childhood in a body cast with no hope of healing, he relished a walk to—anywhere.
On December 7, 1966, stand-up comic, Pat Noriyuki Morita, sweat running down his back, said, “Before I begin, I just want to say I’m sorry for messing up your harbor.”
After a moment of thick silence, the audience burst into laughter.
*Once billed as the Hip Nip, Pat Morita appeared in movies and television. You may remember him as Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid or as Arnold Takahashi on Happy Days. As a child he was diagnosed with spinal TB. The doctors gave him little hope of ever walking. Alas after a procedure restored his legs, he was taken from hospital to a Japanese internment camp.
*As for the photo, I believe that food court is Korean. 😉
Another idea came to mind so I’m double dipping this week. 😀
Genre: Fiction Word Count: 100
SOUVENIRS
“Half the fun of the beach is collecting seashells.” Relishing water and warm sand between her toes, Millie picked up a colorful mollusk shell. “Check out the reds and blues.”
“It will make a nice addition to our bowl,” said Carl.
“We should buy a few of those spirally ones at the souvenir shop. I never find them here.”
“No way. I’ll wager those don’t even come from this beach. Most likely they’re from India where they harvest them live, kill the resident creature with acid and polish them for tourists.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, raping the ecosystem is a lucrative business.”
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 was my fifth annual visit with my brother and sister-in-law. As always it was hard to leave, but good to come back home. The ocean was rough this year and dangerous for swimming most of the time. Still great beach times. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. 😉
Genre: Histrionic Fiction Word Count: 100
ANNUAL HOLIDAY
“You take separate vacations?”
Rochelle grinned at the tanned woman beside her as the plane made its ascent. “Every year for the past five. He goes to South Dakota for the bike rally and texts me pictures of the most gorgeous scenery.”
The North Carolina landscape dwindled below. Rochelle turned from the window. Ten days of sightseeing and beachcombing with her brother zipped by. They’d laughed at punchlines without telling the jokes and reminisced about things only siblings would remember.
“Wouldn’t you like to go with your husband sometime?”
“Nah.” Rochelle wrinkled her nose. “It’s way too peopley for me.”
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.
Dale rolled her eyes as she unpacked the picnic basket. “I feel a history lesson coming on from Rochelle-A-Pedia.
“Ahem.” Rochelle ran her fingertips across the rough picnic bench surface. “The word table is derived from the Latin word Tabula and its earliest models were mostly used by ancient Egyptians. Betcha didn’t know that. Furthermore, through the years, wood workers and manufacturers learned how to customize and adjust furniture used in—”
“Betcha I didn’t care.” Dale gently knocked on Rochelle’s forehead. “Yoohoo? I’m thinking of another term derived from Latin. Tabula rasa.”
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.
Retirement has certainly taken the sting out of Monday. Every day is a weekend. Monday’s one of my swim days. Fifty-four invigorating laps. This morning I tingle with anticipation.
Sipping my morning coffee, I check my emails which are mostly deletable spams.
“What’s this? A member announcement from my fitness center? Have my old-fogy dues gone up again?”
My breath catches in my throat as I read. It’s as if I’m staring down a tunnel with no light on the other side.
“ ‘The Indoor Pools, both lap and rec, will be closed until further notice due to lifeguard shortages.’
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.
Papa put the finishing touches on a straw hat, placed it on his head and, to little Aaron’s delight, broke into a soft shoe.
Mr. Jerwick applauded and laughed. “I’ll take the hat, Mr. Chwatt. But I’m no dancer.”
“Hey Pop,” said sixteen-year-old Aaron. “Check out my uniform for my new job.”
“Doing what? So many buttons.”
“I’m a singing bell boy.” Aaron raked his fingers through his wavy red hair. “Making people smile—like you, Pop. And how about my stage name?”
From Vaudeville to Broadway and film, history will forever remember award-winning entertainer Red Buttons with a smile.
Aaron Chwatt was the son of Jewish immigrants. His father, Michael Chwatt made his living as a milliner in New York’s Lower East Side who enjoyed entertaining his customers.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 