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?
“I’m tired of cartoons,” said the little girl with round eyes the color of ripe cocoa plums. “Tell me a story, Great-Grandpa.”
He clicked off the television. “Soul-destroying nonsense. Shall I tell you about Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Tell me what it was like when you were a boy in the Bahamas.”
He gathered her onto his lap. “We were so poor we didn’t have a telephone or electricity or even indoor plumbing. But we had the bluest skies at our temples and the ocean at our feet.”
“What did you do for fun?”
“I climbed trees, ate wild bananas and went swimming almost every day.”
“You were lucky! Did you ever go to the movies?”
“I didn’t even see a movie until I was twelve.”
“And now you’re a movie star like Denzel Washington.”
Sidney Poitier kissed his great-granddaughter. “Nah, I’m just an ordinary guy.”
*
*
*
Sidney Poitier in one of my favorite films, “To Sir with Love”in 1967
Sidney Poitier receives the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2009
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.
Mystery shrouded the vacant house at the end of the block.
According to the fifteen-year-old newspaper article I found while researching for a term paper, the place belonged to a young couple. One night someone broke in and savagely gutted Mrs. Jenson in her eighth month.
I asked my parents about it.
“Mr. Jenson hung himself,” said Dad. “Pity, they never found the baby.”
Mom flinched. “Glad they’re finally tearing that eyesore down.”
Dad’s spectral smile vanished and Mom turned ice-white when I presented them with the yellowed clipping and a photo of Mrs. Jenson who could’ve been my twin.
Arigatōgozaimashita,
thank you to Karen Rawson for hosting this unique challenge.
To enjoy other stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:
For guidelines and rules for the What Pegman Saw weekly writing prompt, visit the home page.
My photo choice from stroll through Google
Again, I’m late for the party, but couldn’t resist the challenge. Maybe it’s the extra 50 words or the fact that I’m merely a participant.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 150
FLOWER AND WILLOW WORLD
A thousand butterflies swirl in my stomach as I peer out the window, watching for the car that will bring my Hoshi-chan, my shining star, for a brief visit.
After we left her at the Okiya in Kyoto, six months ago, I cried for a week.
“It’s all for the best, Fumiko-chan,” said my husband Ichiro. “She’s following her life’s path.”
“What does she know of life? She’s only fifteen.”
“We’ve five more children and can hardly feed them.”
I cannot argue, but Hoshi is our only daughter, my ally in this man’s house.
At her Misedashi—formal presentation ceremony—my heart swelled with pride. In exquisite silk kimono, painted face and jeweled hair, Hoshi, renamed Kikuyu, was welcomed into the secret society of Geisha.
She glided to me on lacquered getas and uttered those words I will forever cherish. “Okaasan, when I come home, please cook me a hamburger.”
This is my fourth week taking the challenge. Perhaps it’s the lure of 50 extra words or the fun of choosing from a smorgasbord of photos. In any event, I’m back for more. Many thanks the Karen Rawson for hosting. Below are the instructions to join in:
Feel free to stroll around using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post.
To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:
For guidelines and rules for the What Pegman Saw weekly writing prompt, visit the home page.
I must confess that I’ve taken a former Friday Fictioneers flash fiction and tweaked it. Originally it was called ROYAL CONCESSION. It was fun to have the luxury of expanding it and changing it up a bit.
Word Count: 150
Genre: Realistic Fiction
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
Ellen grabbed the remote, turned off the television and climbed onto Jeff’s lap. “Tell me a story, Daddy.”
After countless life-or-death decisions and run-ins with EMT coworkers, his back and shoulders throbbed. The last fatality was Ellen’s age, a boy who breathed his last in Jeff’s arms.
He took back the remote. “Later, Doodle-bug.”
With five-year-old persistence, Ellen settled against his chest. “Once upon a time, in a castle in faraway India, lived a maharaja and his bee-yoo-tee-ful little princess. Your turn, Daddy.”
Her dark eyes held him prisoner. The remote slipped from his fingers. “Okay. The castle was called Shahi Qila. They rode jeweled elephants and swam in the Tapti River. Your turn, Doodles. What happened next?”
“They…” her voice faded into a yawn and her eyelids drooped.
Jeff’s taut muscles eased. He stroked her silken curls, kissed the top of her head and whispered, “…lived happily ever after.”
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.
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 we learn from them?”
“Yeah.” Folding his arms across his chest, Harvey smirked. “Jews don’t camp.”
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.
“What are you wearing to the party tonight?” he asked.
“My purple dress.”
“Could you be more specific? Almost everything in your closet is purple.”
“It’s the color of royalty.” She clicked on Wikipedia. “The ancient Phoenicians prized it as early as 1570 BC. Phoenicia means ‘Land of Purple.’”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course it does.”
“Billions of sea snails have given their lives to produce the dye. According to historians it fetched its weight in silver in Colophon in Asia Minor. The Romans used it for their ceremonial robes.”
“So that means you’re wearing…”
“…my purple dress.”
Dibromindigo is the major component in Tyrian purple.
Summer is the time for vacations, picnics on the beach and reruns on the telly. For me it has been a time to meet a deadline in July for my third novel in my series entitled AS ONE MUST ONE CAN. These are happy times! The deadline has been met, but there are edits to do and more business ahead. So the Summer Showcase will continue for a few more Fridays. Many thanks to those of you who responded to my plea for your favorite reruns.
The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from CEAYR. If you’re one of those who wrote a story for this prompt feel free to re-post it and enjoy the respite. Remember that all photos are private property and subject to copyright. Use other than Friday Fictioneers by permission only.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 