This week’s Friday Fictioneers’ photo prompt is from Lura Helms. It’s always fun to read the different imaginings that emanate from one photo. Here’s my 100 word offering.

In the woods on the outskirts of town is the Tree of Life. Not to be confused with the original this one earned its name from a century of discarded oddities which have grown into its branches.

Jason and I carved our names into the bark the day before he left for Viet Nam. We’d marry when he returned.

When the final letter came my heart cratered to my stomach.

He’d met Trinh-Lee, his true love.

Today you can still read the crude print that says, “Jason loves Karen.”

Just below it, imbedded in the trunk, is my disengagement ring.

Without a lot of explanation or intro I give you this week’s offering for Friday Fictioneers.

“Your services are no longer needed.”

Twenty-three years of loyalty to the company. Terminated. Snap! Just like that.

Along with other victims, Elise sued for age discrimination and won.

No longer defined by job description, motherhood, widowhood or any other hood, she left the Midwest behind.

Thousands of miles away, the ocean’s slup-slosh sated her thirsty ears. The salt-laden breeze sent shivers of delight through her bare arthritic shoulders.

Then she dove headlong into the wake. The sea welcomed and caressed her like a long-lost lover. Her eyes feasted on purple coral, mollusks and striped clownfish.

Elise was home!

The following is an excerpt from my short story “The Swimming Lesson”. It’s one of 14 stories included in my anthology THIS, THAT AND SOMETIMES THE OTHER. Illustrations and Front cover are the author’s original work as well.

A lit M-80 slipped from Wayne Lord’s fingers. It sizzled its way to the water thirty feet below. Bang! Splash! A startled catfish floated to the surface and turned belly-up.

Two more explosions resulted in two more dead fish. He grinned at his buddy, Frankie Ray, and shrugged. “Ain’t done it.”

“Darn tootin’ you did!” With a shake of his head, the other boy chuckled. “We’ll make a hillbilly out of you yet, city boy.”

It was the second day of Wayne’s escape. Summer vacation. 1961. He didn’t miss the eight-by-forty-foot home he shared with his two brothers, a sister and his mother. Their trailer sat next to Frankie Ray’s parents’, in a tag-rag trailer park behind Beech Aircraft, on the outskirts of Wichita, Kansas. When they invited him to go to Arkansas cor the summer with Frankie Ray, he jumped at the chance to leave behind the dust and never-ending flatlands. His eyes couldn’t drink in enough of Arkansas’ lush hills and valleys.

“Hey, Lordy Lordy, know how to swim?” asked Boyce, a barrel-chested boy with ash-blond hair and a deep tan.

Wayne breathed in hot air, thick with humidity and his own sweat. Words stuck in his throat like first-grade paste. “No.”

“Time you learned, city boy.” Thump! Boyce smacked his shoulders.

Scraping his bare heel on a sharp rock. Wayne stumbled backward and tumbled over the cliff’s edge. He flailed his arms and feet and fought to climb empty air.

The river approached with alarming speed. What if he missed the swimming hole and landed on the rocks instead? he shut his eyes so he wouldn’t see it when his brains splattered into fish bait and floated down the Buffalo.

End of excerpt.

The story in its entirety is included in my collection. Copies are available on Amazon.com. To find out how to receive a personally autographed copy go to my website: http://www.rochellewordart.com.

This week’s Friday Fictioneers’ photo prompt has been something of a challenge. While it might conjure up visions of creepy aliens. it’s a picture of a cut grape vine. I neither wrote about grape vines nor aliens. Just under 100 words this week with 99.

Half naked Himba people in Nambia, a sweaty camera crew and millions of TV viewers witnessed our marriage vows.

I willingly followed Trevor up the Himalayas, drank sun-scorched canteen water instead of Cabernet and swatted mosquitos in the Amazon.

In Nepal he slipped on something and narrowly escaped being trampled by a choleric elephant.

“I’m done,” he whispered later. “Let’s go home.”

“You are my home.”

Back in the states, safe from cheetah attacks and hippo stampedes, Trevor’s mangled body lies on a cold steel table. The driver, texting on her cell phone, never saw him cross the street.

I’m multitasking this morning. Trying to cram down breakfast, put on makeup and post my story for Friday Fictioneers at the same time. Then it’s off to work. 97 words this go around.

“Nice doggie,” whispered Jolie.

Huddled against the fence she faced a mouthful of Pit Bull teeth. Which would be worse–the whipping she’d get for losing Grandma’s ring or to be eaten alive by a junkyard dog?

A few inches from the behemoth’s haunch, moonlight glinted off the sapphire. With her eyes fixed on his, she slid her hand toward the ring, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he snapped to his feet with a roaring bark and lunged.

Her heart thrashed against her ribs.

In one ferocious bite the Copperhead skulking toward her met a grisly fate.

A week’s vacation has afforded me more writing time than usual. Even though it’s only Thursday I deem my Friday Fictioneers story ready for viewing. 98 words if you’re counting.

Savage heat devoured the crops. My hopes for new shoes, satin and lace shriveled with the corn and beans in Daddy’s field.

Mama inspected brittle vines along the fence. “No jelly makin’ this year, Della-Mae.”

Under the feral sun, on withered ground, she smoothed spotless bed-sheets. Then she strewed them with tiny grapes.

In September I pledged my troth in Mama’s yellowed gown. Her slippers were half again too small so I walked the aisle barefoot.

Thirty-nine years later, as we did on our wedding day, Rueben and I celebrate our devotion with grapevine bouquets and raisin wine.

After 7 years of writing, rewriting and shopping for an agent. I’m pleased to announce that last weekend I signed a contract with Jeanie Pantelakis of Sullivan Maxx Literary Agency.

To say that I’m happy would be the epitome of the understatement.
Below is the blurb that Jeanie wrote for my novel. Wow. It even makes me want to read it!

Barefoot, wearing only a nightgown, 16 year old Havah Cohen alone escapes the brutal massacre by the Czarist tyranny that destroys her home and slaughters her family on a frigid November night in 1899.

Love ignited, lost and found, insurmountable struggles and challenges, Kishinev’s Jewish pogroms and all odds against them, Havah and her soul mate, Arel withstand the storms of life in this unforgettable story of a time and place rarely spoken of.

Now to work on editing the sequel From Silt and Ashes. It’s a sweet feeling to know I’m not in this alone.

It’s my favorite time of the week! Not only do I get to meet the challenge of writing a 100 word story to go with the photo prompt from Madison Woods, I’m privileged to enjoy stories written by other Friday Fictioneers as well.

Somewhere in the vicinity of the girl’s restroom a fire fighter found a melted disposable lighter but couldn’t say for sure it was the cause. By the time he found it flames had already licked, hissed and reduced the school to a charred heap.

Stunned faces, like gray balloons, floated single file through choking billows. Only one teacher perished. A hero.

“Tell that to his wife and baby son.” Angela’s cheeks blazed.

The next morning she watched a buzzard spread his wings on an incinerated branch. Nothing left to scavenge; he soared into the grief-stricken sky.

Angela never smoked again.

This week’s photo prompt from Amanda Gray was a challenge for me so I’m a little later posting than usual. Hope everyone had a safe and happy 4th.

“I detest camping,” said Ella.

But how could she resist Chuck’s brown-eyed, boyish pout? That same look coaxed her into matrimony to the impoverished med student a year ago.

Two miles past the nearest service station, his classic Mustang stalled. Neither of their cell phones found a signal and the sun was setting. Resentment swelled her. Pain riddled her back and thighs as they hauled their gear to a nearby abandoned building.

“At least we don’t have to pitch the tent. See, El, our luck’s about to change.”

“More than you can imagine.”

“Huh?”

“My water just broke.”

TGIFF! Thank God it’s Friday Fictioneers! Thanks for stopping by and reading my offering. A little lighter than my usual fare. As always thanks to Madison Woods for the challenge and the fun. This has become not only a great exercise in writing, but a link to a great community of writers as well!
This week I’m dedicating my story to my sister/friend Regina who would never have carried this particular guilt.

“I’ll never forgive you!” Bang! The door slammed behind him.

Troy’s slouched form dwindled to a speck and disappeared over the hill.

Regina grabbed a bowl and went out to her garden. Like crimson jewels, bulging raspberries, dripping with morning dew, begged to be plucked and eaten.

Daily tasks were not enough to occupy her mind or quell her longing for his arms.

At 3:30 the back door opened and shut. He came back!

“Raspberry cobbler? Yum!” Fourteen-year-old Troy hugged her. “Sorry I yelled at you, Mom.”

“It’s okay. I should’ve asked before I threw away your old teddy bear.”