Ho Ho Ho! This week Pegman takes us to the town of North Pole, Alaska in the USA.
Though it appears Santa’s workshop is near, you’re not obligated to write a Christmas-themed story or poem. The spirit of Pegman is to write 150 words inspired by your own tour of the location. Wander around and chose your own screenshot, if you like.
Once you’ve created your story, add it to the InLinkz using the button below. Sharing, reading, and commenting on other stories is part of the fun.
Many thanks and Merry Christmas to Karen and Josh who facilitate this challenge.
North Pole, Alaska
This week I took a five-year-old Friday Fictioneers story out of mothballs, expanded it and made a few changes. Those 50 extra words can be a delightful game changer. 😀
Genre: Holiday Spirit
Word Count: 150
Dedicated to my friend, John Schuech. If Santa Claus does exist, it’s in this man’s huge heart. ❤
PRELUDE TO SUCCESS
“Failure.”
Isn’t that what Tiana said when she’d flung her clothes into a suitcase? “I can’t take any more. Call me if you ever get your act together.”
Since he’d come back from Iraq, Emmet had been plagued with nightmares and had made four suicide attempts. He’d lost three jobs this year alone.
“Try it,” said his buddy John. “It’ll do wonders for you.”
Combing his prematurely white hair, he glared at his weary bearded reflection. He couldn’t blow this gig.
***
His footsteps echoed down the sterile hallway. How long had he spent in this place being stitched back together?
Stopping at room 223, he pushed open the door and tiptoed to the bed. Feeding tubes and IV’s snaked around the slumbering child.
He caressed her bald head and forced a cheerful, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
Her brown eyes fluttered open and shone with innocent faith.
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.
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!”
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)
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?
“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.”
For this week’s challenge I revisited a Friday Fictioneers piece I posted two years ago, added 50 words and gave it a new title.
Genre: Realistic, Historical and All-Too-Current Fiction
Word Count: 150
ASLEEP IN THE LIGHT
At thirteen Myung Hee was three years older than the rest of my students. Despite my many scoldings, they laughed at her and called her babo.
One day I found her weeping in the schoolyard.
“What’s wrong, gongjunim?”
“I’m not princess.” A single tear trickled down her cheek. “I feel sorry for these children. They are not understand. In time a heart beats this light can be snatched from them.”
I tried to hug her but she pulled back. Her swollen eyes, old beyond their years, pierced my heart.
“My baby brother and I escaped Kim Jong-il’s prison camp, but two days later I buried him in the desert with only the stars to see. I thought South Korea would be the center of my dreams, but they lie with my brother in darkness.”
Myung Hee’s words resonated deep within me and, in that moment, the teacher became the student.
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.
My mother’s button collection fascinated me. Among my favorites were pearly ones with silver trim or grape-shaped ones made of glass. Like the jar in which she stored them, they smelled of stale mustard.
One afternoon I dumped them out on the table. A shiny blue straggler embossed with curvy white leaves rolled toward the edge. Mom caught it.
Her faraway eyes sparkled like the button itself. “My dress fastened in front. Indigo satin. He called me Princess Blue Belle.”
“Cute. Daddy’s clever, isn’t he?”
“Oops!” Blushing, she crammed the button into her pocket. “Time to clean up for supper.”
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.
Darren scratched his ear with a straightened paperclip. Gina slapped it from his hand. “Stop! You’ll perforate your eardrum!”
“Then I won’t havta hear your nagging.”
“Ohhh, just do your homework.”
“Do your own.” He rolled his eyes. “Sisters.”
“My report’s done.” She stacked three typewritten pages and paper-clipped the corners together. “Consider the lowly paperclip. Know who invented it?”
“Who cares?”
“Some think it was Johan Vaaler, a Norwegian. But it was actually an American, William D. Middlebrook, who even patented the machine to make them in 1899. Whaddya think?”
For the past five years, since joining Friday Fictioneers, I’ve written or posted a flash fiction at least once a week. My favorite genre is historical fiction, but that hasn’t stopped me from writing humorous anecdotes, realistic fiction or just plain nonsense. But any and all who know me very well will tell you that Jewish themes are my favorites. Nu? Why shouldn’t they be? I am after all, a Jew. All four of my grandparents came from Eastern Europe to escape the pogroms in the Pale of Settlement or the Russian draft.
Last month I met Eve Brackenbury, a gifted poet who co-owns Inklings’ Books & Coffee Shoppe in Blue Springs, Missouri, on Facebook. Social Media is my friend.
Not only did I make a new friend that day, I also made a valuable connection on many fronts. Our first conversation dealt with the challenges of marketing. As we chatted in an IM she said, “You write Jewish Historical Fiction. Are you Jewish?” Is the Pope Catholic?
Eve told me about the CloudBursT Jewish Poetry event and gave me Martha Gershun’s email address. Although I don’t write what I would call poetry, I thought perhaps Martha might be able to point me in the right direction as far as reaching a Jewish audience. I inserted one of my Jewish themed flash fictions in my email to her and, not five minutes later, the return email came with, “That’s really powerful. Would you like to come and read?”
Martha Gershun- CloudBursT organizer and poet
I must’ve changed my mind twelve times as to which stories I would read. Finally, the day came, Sunday, May 21, and I’d narrowed it down to four of my favorites. The lobby of Congregation Beth Torah teemed with poets and their guests. We were warmly welcomed with food, wine and friendly conversation.
So much Yiddishkeit. I felt like I’d come home. I particularly enjoyed Ellen Portnoy’s piece “The Nuances of Nu.”
Out of 19 who read, I was third to the last, just before Eve. The ones I read are as follows:
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT
In preparation for his bar mitzvah, twelve-year-old Harvey Weinstein opened the book to his parashah. His stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry.”
“Sh’mot beginning with Chapter 16,” said Rabbi Shmuel. “First in English, then Hebrew.”
Harvey fumed. “I’m tired of Torah. I’d rather play Xbox.”
“This is the perfect reading for you.” The rabbi winked and pointed to the page. “The children of Israel kvetched day and night in the wilderness. ‘Oy, Moses, we’re wet. We’re cold. We’re starving to death.’ Nu? Is there something we can learn from them?”
“Yeah.” Folding his arms across his chest, Harvey smirked. “Jews don’t camp.”
***
FAMILY TREE
“‘And they lived happily ever after.’” Leah shut the storybook.
Shifra’s raisin-brown eyes, round as bottle caps, sparkled. “Bubbie? Did you love Grandpa at first sight?”
“He was only eight when we met. Mama took him in…hid him from the khappers, bad men who snatched little Jewish boys from their homes and made them serve twenty-five years in the Czar’s army.”
“Did she hide him in the closet?”
“No she was smart, my Mama.”
“He was like your brother, right?”
Leah pointed to a tintype on the table of two little bonneted girls and grinned. “More like my sister.”
***
THE HEAVIEST WHEEL ROLLS ACROSS OUR FOREHEADS
When I was a little girl in the 1950’s, Mom used to take me to visit my aunt in St. Louis. I so looked forward to those train rides. Sunlight dazzled through the trees as they whizzed by and the rhythm of the wheels along the track soothed me.
Dad, on the other hand, hated trains, but would never tell me why. Only once did he accompany us.
As we left Union Station, tears trickled from the corners of his faraway eyes.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
“The stench was unbearable. Fifty of us crammed into a cattle car. I alone escaped.”
***
HATH NOT A JEW EYES?
Do you know the word “Jew” is a common insult among Norwegian teens? Should this bother me? After all, I am a Norwegian Jew.
“If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
Reptilian? I’ve been called this. Do people seriously believe this mishegoss—that Jews are lizard creatures from another planet?
“If you tickle us, do we not laugh?”
I will never forget holding my father’s hand as we strolled along a mountain path. Two youths shoved him and shouted, “Child murderer!”
The memory of warm spittle dripping down my face sickens me still.
“If you wrong us, do we not revenge?”
Not in Norway. Instead, we hide in plain sight.
Last summer a group of Hasidim invited us to a Jewish gathering in Oslo. We cranked up the music and danced in front of Parliament.
I’ve heard that work makes us free, but we’re not falling for that again.
Poets Estelle and Virginia
Ellen Portnoy on the left. Nu? Have you clicked the link and read her article?
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 