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.”
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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
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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.
Ah the warm smell of lilacs Rising up in the air. Daffodils, ever my favorite. A feast for the eyes. Flora and fauna. Dandelion seeds delight children Who blow them into the wind. Goldenrod Ragweed A Mid-Summer-Night’s Bad Dream. According to Dr. John Bostock in 1828 Neither bleeding nor purging Alleviated The itch of the eye, Or running of the nose, Or the incessant tickle in the throat. That was then, this is now. Antihistamines bring some relief. In closing, A word of advice, my fellow allergy sufferers, Take care whilst driving. It’s impossible to sneeze without shutting your eyes.
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.
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.”
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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.”
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My best friend and I took Driver’s Ed the year we turned sixteen thinking we’d get our licenses together.
I passed the written part with flying colors. Recognizing road signs and learning the rules of the road was a snap.
The actual driving part was another story. Both excitement and terror welled up as I gripped the steering wheel. Images of every traffic accident I’d seen on the news zipped through my mind.
My instructor shook his head at my attempt to parallel park. “Your final driving score is negative fifty-one. Might I suggest you purchase a lifetime bus pass?”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 