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.
Cradling her infant son in her arms, Savannah’s heart swelled as her husband Emmet hammered the final nail into their cabin. After grueling weeks of travel in a covered wagon, she relished the warm Kansas breeze on her face.
Emmet walked backward to admire his handiwork. “It ain’t a palace, but it’s ours.”
The newborn squirmed and nuzzled Savannah’s breast. She gazed at his round bronze cheeks with pride.
“No more auction block of us, my little angel. We home now.”
“Freedom!” Encircling his arm around her, Emmet grinned. “Our own stores. Our own church. Our own town. Nicodemus, Kansas.
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 NEWS! We’re in the final stretch of my upcoming novel LAST DANCE WITH ANNIE. Cover soon to be revealed.
Teaser. This is not the cover, but this artwork is used.
So begins another week of Friday Fictioneers. Happy Valentine’s Day. ❤ I have a favor to ask. Since at least four comments came up as “anonymous” last week, could you identify yourself? I’m not sure what’s up with that. Thank you.
Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
TIME SIGNATURES
“I haven’t seen you practice at all, Oscar.” Fourteen-year-old Daisy scowled at her nine-year-old brother. “How do you expect to perform if you don’t practice?”
“Like this.” He played a Chopin piece without missing a note.
Daisy sighed. After hours of diligent practice, she still made mistakes.
Never a public performer, Daisy Peterson Sweeney passed away at the age of 97. It seemed that all of Montreal turned out to pay their respects. Generations of her piano students sang her praises.
Among her first pupils, Oscar Peterson was hailed as one of the greatest jazz pianists of the twentieth century.
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.
Miss Mathilda swiveled her head to the right and then the left before shutting the door to the makeshift classroom. Her dark eyes shone as she turned to the children.
“Open your readers to page twelve. Cicely, please read the first paragraph.”
Ten-year-old Cicely’s heart thumped. Taking a deep breath, she read, “‘The fly—says, I fly in—the air…’ What good do it do us to read? It’s agin’ the law.”
“Some laws are meant to be broken.” A tear glistened on the teacher’s bronze cheek. “Mr. Douglass says, ‘Once you learn to read you will forever be free.’”
Black History Month is upon us and there are so many untold stories to be shared. This story is loosely based on unsung hero Mother Mathilda Beasely. To read her story CLICK HERE.And to learn a little more about the Anti-Literacy Laws CLICK HERE
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 Saturday is Annual Holocaust Remembrance. It has been seventy-nine years since the liberation of Auschwitz. And in that span of a lifetime, while a few survivors are still among us, many school children know nothing about this dark time in history. Others deny that the genocide ever happened. (How clever of the Jewish people to stage such a thing…even before photo shop.)
Even as we shout “Never again”, Antisemitism rears its evil head once more. Not that it ever went away. So I will step off my soap box long enough to share a fictitious story based on facts.
Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
MEMORY’S HARVEST
In 1947 six-year-old Lyudmila moved from Poland with Father to her uncle’s dairy farm in upstate New York. She milked cows and gathered eggs. Every morning the Catskills kissed the sky. A bright, happy place for a child.
“So young she won’t remember,” whispered Aunt Dora one night over dinner.
Weeks later Lyudmila twisted her ankle on a tree root.
“Just a sprain,” said Dr. Meinenger. “You will be sehr gut as new, Liebling.”
His gentle touch and familiar accent stirred sleeping memories.
Dr. Mengele’s gloved fingers.
Her twin sister’s severed limbs on the operating table.
Lyudmila would never forget.
If you have fifteen minutes to spare and want to know more about the Angel of Death CLICK HERE.
A handfull of you might remember this story from the first time I posted it in 2013. It’s interesting to see how many FFrs have come and gone and some have returned.Thanks to all for reading and commenting. Shalom, Rochelle
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.
Eight-year-old Helena clung to her seventeen-year-old sister’s hand. “Fusia,” she whispered, “what if they…?”
“Hush!” Stefania squeezed Helena’s hand. “It will be all right. The Blessed Holy Mother has told me so.”
Helena bit her lip. Having heard a noise from the attic, the Gestapo climbed the ladder to where thirteen Jews hid. It had been Helena’s job to carry off their excrement and bring them food and water. Would they all be put to death?
Moments later, the officer descended the ladder, shaking his head. “It was only a rat.” He glared at the girls and muttered. “Filthy Poles.”
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.
Sitting on Pop’s shoulders, seven-year-old Charlotte shivered, both with cold and excitement. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Her bedtime was hours ago.
“This is a special occasion,” Mama had said. “New Years Eve in Times Square.”
Electricity charged the air and the crowd hushed in anticipation. Brighter than their Hanukkah candles had been, poised for its descent, the ball dazzled the night sky. The countdown began.
“Ten, nine, eight…” The crowd chanted. “Seven, six, five, four…”
“Three, two, one!” cried Charlotte.
Taking her in his arms, Poppa whispered, “May 1908 be the grandest year ever in our new country!”
****
If you want to know more about the history of the New Years Eve ball drop that began December 31, 1907 CLICK HERE.
Oh the crazy thoughts that come to me in the wee early morning hours. Looking at this prompt, I decided to plug my new novel LAST DANCE WITH ANNIE, due out sometime next year. I vascillate between excitement and apprehension as much of Elise’s story is my own. The following is a slightly edited excerpt.
Genre: Realistic Fiction/Excerpt Word Count: 100
“WHAT THE HELL IS A PENTIMENTO?”
Elise hugged her legs tightly to her chest and answered her husband’s question. “A pentimento’s a painting hidden under a painting. For whatever reason, say the artist wasn’t happy with the first painting but doesn’t want to waste the canvas, he paints over the first picture.”
“Or because he has something to hide.” Her psychiatrist raised an eyebrow. “Let me put this into perspective. When you were small, you went somewhere else when the abuse happened. In a sense, you painted over the ugly images. This became more difficult as you grew older, although you were still adept at revision.”
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 BIRTHDAY to Sandra Crook@ 😀 She ‘s the one who shows us how it’s done and was a Friday Fictioneer before I joined.
Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
DON’T LET THE LIGHT GO OUT
Mom stuck a candle in each of the nine holes she’d made in a potato. “We’re ready to kindle the lights.”
Ranit rolled her eyes. “Why can’t we get a pretty hanukkiah like Tali’s family?”
At the stove, Savtah stirred potato soup. “Even in the camp, Hanukkah came. We girls stole a potato and some machine oil. From threads in our sheets, we made the wick. We lit it where the guards wouldn’t see and for a while, we were happy.”
Swallowing her tears, Ranit lit the candles and whispered, “Isn’t it the most beautiful hanukkiah in the whole world?”
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 week in the USA we celebrate the holiday known as Thanksgiving, which is usually characterized by watching parades, football and eating oneself into a coma. On that note, I want you all to know how thankful I am for you who participate in Friday Fictioneers. Some of you were part of the challenge before I joined. Some of you are newbies and others fall somewhere in between. A hearty THANK YOU, MUCHAS GRACIAS, DANKE SCHÖN, MERCI, MARAMING SALAMAT, TODAH RABBAH to all of you.
Genre: Anecdotal Fiction Word Count: 100
DAUGHTER OF VOICE
For two years I saved to travel to the Holy Land where I dreamt of walking in the footsteps of the great Bible prophets.
After five days of touring ancient ruins and being dragged into schlock shops, I’d had no transcendent revelations and didn’t feel any closer to heaven.
On the sixth day I encountered the violinist. No crowds gathered around her, yet she performed with captivating passion that would’ve humbled Paganini. I dropped several coins into her open case. And there…
…in Jerusalem’s Cardo, amid patrons and peddlers, I came face to face with the unpretentious countenance of God.