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Strolling along the boardwalk, Olivia gazed at the sea and heaved a lonely sigh. Wayne had proposed here. Lost in memories, she was startled by a male voice. “Olivia?”
She whipped around to see a man with a familiar smile. His hair had turned white, but his blue eyes hadn’t lost their sparkle.
“Steven?”
“How’s that sly dog who stole your heart from me?”
“Cancer. Two years ago.”
Steven’s playful grin faded. “Gloria passed last June.”
After they exchanged condolences, Steven reached for her hand. “What say we catch up over coffee somewhere warmer?”
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.
“Oh Gussie,” said Mother with a moan. “I fear you’re a terrible influence on your little sister. And you’ve ruined your frocks. Just look at you two covered in mud.”
Ten-year-old Agusta laughed. “Addie’s a better wrestler than me.”
“I’m this many.” Adeline held up five fingers.
Twenty-two years later, backs aching, Gussie and Addie wrestled their Indian motorcycles through miles of mud.
September 2nd, 1916, the Van Buren sisters completed their treacherous journey from New York to San Francisco.
Addie chuckled. “What would Mother say now?”
Agusta grinned. “She just might say something like, ‘woman can, if she will.’”
To learn more about these remarkable women 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.
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.”
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Hundreds of stories circulated in Skidmore, Missouri. All true. He packed a shotgun. You didn’t say no to him, or he’d burn down your house or kill your dog.
Marshall Dunbar was so scared of McElroy he quit and got a job at a cable company.
One summer night, Daddy told Mama, “That town bully needs killin’.”
On a July afternoon in 1981, some folks crowded around McElroy’s truck outside a tavern. Two gunshots. Blam! Goodbye, Bully.
For forty years, the FBI has tried to solve his murder but so far, ain’t nobody seen nothin’.
When I say “historical fiction”, I’m talking about the narrator. The rest is chillingly true. For more info 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.
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?”