20 February 2015

Published February 18, 2015 by rochellewisoff

*NOTE: When linking your story in the inLinkz, you’re given three boxes. The first one is for your URL and the third for your email address. The second presents with your blog and story title. It would be helpful if writers would backspace over that and type in your name. This way we can all tell who the writer is at a glance. Thank you.

Below is the PHOTO PROMPT. What thoughts crystallize in your mind? Can you tell the story in a hundred words or less?

My story follows the prompt below. I enjoy honest comments.

PHOTO PROMPT – © Copyright Marie Gail Stratford

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

SCHIST HAPPENS

I’ll never forget Mike O’Hara, my fellow New York sanitation worker. What a storyteller. Every Friday night me and the boys would settle round for a long listen.

“So I says to Mr. King, ‘whatcha make a dis rock I dug up?’”Mike took a long swig of beer. “Heavy sucker. Looks kinda like a red diamond. King says he knows a jeweler who’d kill for it.”

“This might be your tallest tale yet, O’Hara,” said Pete.

Mike had the last laugh when his “sewer garnet” made headlines in 1886. Pity he didn’t sell it hisself. Could’ve made a fortune.

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http://www.johnbetts-fineminerals.com/jhbnyc/articles/garnet.htm

http://www.johnbetts-fineminerals.com/jhbnyc/articles/nycminerals2.htm

13 February 2015

Published February 11, 2015 by rochellewisoff

😀 In case you missed it we were mentioned in WordPress’s Daily Post 10 February 2015 https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2015/02/10/highlighted-blogging-events/

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The next photo is the PROMPT. Where does it take you? Tell me in a hundred words or less.

My story follows the prompt and the Blue InLinkz frog. I appreciate honest comments and constructive criticism.

PHOTO PROMPT –Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

VICISSITUDES

When Sarah and I were five, Grandma sold Jack. Mama took to her bed for a month.

“Why she sell my daddy?” asked Sarah.

I dried Sarah’s tears with my lace petticoat.

“Stop that, Emma.” Grandma snapped. “She’s a servant.”

Six years later the old biddy sold my best friend. I haven’t seen her since.

On my seventeenth birthday I was married off to a plantation owner near Charleston.

This morning I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who bears no resemblance to either her blond father or me. In fact, she’s the spitting image of her Aunt Sarah.

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Real life twins. It can and does happen.

VOICE OF A SPANISH DANCER – WRITING THE WAVES

Published February 9, 2015 by rochellewisoff

WRITING THE WAVES

A few years ago I made a terrible mistake that ultimately affected my health. I allowed my passion to write to replace exercise, including swimming.

One day I went for a routine checkup. My doctor, who had taken care of me through years of anorexia, told me I needed to lose weight.

“Pre-diabetes and hypertension,” she said, “Rochelle, I know you love to write but get off the chair once in a while.”

Diabetes runs rampant on both sides of my family. My father died from congestive heart failure as a result and another relative went blind. Neither prospect appealed to me.

Averse to taking medication I opted, with my doctor’s agreement, to control my sugar with diet and exercise. My elliptical trainer came out of moth balls. I found a pool and religiously counted carbs. My numbers, weight and blood sugar, went down.

Exercise in no way takes away from my writing time. In fact, the pool is my think tank where more than a few story lines have emerged. There are still sedentary days when I neither swim nor write as I fight my tendency to “awfulize” and tread the waters of self-pity rather than meeting the challenges head on.

This morning, in the lap lane next to mine, a young swimmer battles the water. I feel a bit winded myself as I watch her. Arms flailing, she works hard to keep her head above water. I wish I could tell her how much easier it would be if she kicked less and let the water carry her.

Perhaps one day, I’ll take my own advice.

6 February 2015

Published February 4, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The following photo is the PROMPT. Can you get lost in it? What kind of story does it tell you? Share it in a hundred words or less.

My story follows the prompt and the blue inLinkz frog. I appreciate honest comments and constructive crit.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Melanie Greenwood

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Perhaps it seems I’m late to the party as last week, 27 January, commemorated the seventieth anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. In my opinion, every day is a good time to remember.

Shalom,

Rochelle

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Genre: Speculative Fiction

Word Count: 100

YIZKOR

There is a museum in Jerusalem called Yad Vashem. Although I live five miles from it, I’ve never wanted to visit.

“Come with me, Hannah,” says Zvi. “The candles are pretty.”

My brother is relentless.

“No, Zvi. Let me forget.”

_________

The maze of mirrors is filled with reflections of six candle flames.

“Shoshana Stein, six years old. Romania.”

Disembodied voices intone names in an endless requiem for the dead.

“Moishe Lapinsky, sixteen years old. Poland.”

One point five million children murdered.

“Zvi Goldberg. Four years old. Ukraine.”

At my brother’s name, I sink to my knees.

I will never forget.

Original Artwork – © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The names I used in my story are fictitious. The names in the following snippet are real. Haunting in its simplicity, the candle room is an experience I’ll never forget.

30 January 2015

Published January 28, 2015 by rochellewisoff

Below is the PHOTO PROMPT. Does it spark an idea for you? Step outside the fuse box and switch on a story.

My story will follow the prompt and the blue inLinkz frog. I appreciate honest feedback for it’s how we grow as writers.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright Ted Strutz

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

TIP OF THE SPEAR

“Eddie, why did you do that?”

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

Eddie hung his head and stared at Mom’s shattered porcelain teapot. It never occurred to him when he threw his ball at the cat that he’d miss.

“Special Ed.” His sister Karen stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes. “Retard.”

“Impulsive and disruptive,” his second grade teacher told Mom the day he stuck a piece of foil in the electrical outlet. “He’ll never amount to much.”

____________

“Why did Eddie do that?” Karen whispered.

“Impulsive and fearless.” The tall Marine handed her a folded American flag. “A true hero.”

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23 January 2015

Published January 21, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The photo below is from our lady in Italy. What does it say to you? I dare you step outside the boat and walk on water.

My story follows the prompt and the elusive blue frog.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Georgia Koch

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

IN ISMAY’S PLACE

Logan hunched his shoulders against the icy North Atlantic wind.

“Me wee Patrick’s one tomorrow.”

“Dinnae fash yersel,” said John, the coxswain. “The morrow’ll be the cold start of May and there’ll be eight more months of 1912 to play with the boy.”

“Two points starboard, John,” said Logan from the bow as he readied the boat hook.

Four months later the memories of the baby they pulled from the water tormented Logan. Patrick’s cries woke him from a nightmare. He gathered the child into his arms and whispered.

“Let fly, lad. ‘Tis a hard life, but a good sign.”

All Together Now

Published January 15, 2015 by rochellewisoff

Over the course of two years I’ve written well over a hundred flash fiction stories for Friday Fictioneers. Four of my favorites stories about the Beatles. I’ve been a fan since I saw them on the Ed Sullivan show fifty-one years ago. It’s been suggested that I post a blog with all four of these stories which seems like a grand idea. I hope you’ll indulge me.

The first in my unintentional series is a complete work of fiction. One of those ‘what if’ stories.

RUMSPRINGA

Word count: 100

Out for a walk in the night, lost in thought, I didn’t see him until we collided. I apologized repeatedly.

“No, it’s me. Without me glasses I’m fair blind.” He pointed at my bonnet. “Costume party?”

“Amish. I’m in New York to choose my future—my parent’s home or the modern world.”

“Do you like rock and roll?”

“What’s that?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“No.”

“What’ll you choose—1694 or 1964?”

“Not sure. I hate big crowds.”

“So do I.” He offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss…”

“Julia.”

“Fab name.”

“And you, sir?”

“John. John Lennon.”

Originally posted here.

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Later on, down the road, another prompt put me in mind of George Harrison. Up until this one I hadn’t intended on making it a series. Nor did I truly plan for it after this one.

ALL THINGS MUST PASS

Word Count: 100

“‘A sunrise doesn’t last all morning,’” I sing and strum the chords that take me back to a New York television studio thirty years ago.

There to meet a friend, I loaned my Martin to an aging musician for his last live performance.

“You don’t happen to have a capo, do you, Miss Guitar Lady?” he asked.

Something in his serene eyes and genuine smile reached to the depths of my soul.

My fingers move on the fretboard where his once did. I never changed those strings.

And as VH1’s cameras recorded history, George Harrison made my guitar gently weep.

Originally posted here.

____________

This is the story that sealed the deal.

WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

Word Count: 100 words

The boy stared out the window beside his bed and listened to his Alyn Ainsworth record. He tapped his fingers on the night stand in time to the music.

Sentenced to the ‘greenhouse,’ a children’s sanitarium, he’d celebrated his fourteenth birthday with tea, boredom and Streptomycin. Yet, after a year of incarceration, the doctors still considered Ritchie too ill to go home.

“Join our band,” said a nurse. “Bring your new banjo.”

“I’d rather play drums.”

Ten years later Ritchie smiled over his drum set at a sea of screaming teenagers as Ed Sullivan cried, “Ladies and gentleman, the Beatles!”

Originally posted here.

_________________

It was only a matter of time until a photo prompt would inspire a story for or about Paul.

WORDS OF WISDOM

Word Count:100

“I pressed your clothes,” said Mary. “Mind Dad and look after your brother whilst I’m in hospital.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Paul buttoned his shirt. “Deese are me bezzies.”

“Stop it. I’ve taught you better, now haven’t I?”

“Not half.” He quipped in falsetto. “The Queen’s English. Ever so posh.”

She looked as if she wanted to scold him more. Instead, she embraced him and said, “If I don’t come back…”

Emptiness flooded the boy.

“Of course you’re coming back. Who’ll cook for us if you don’t?”

“There will be an answer.” Mary McCartney kissed her son and whispered, “Let it be.”

Although some have believed this to be a religious song, Mother Mary is none other than Paul’s dear mum who passed away when he was only fourteen.

Originally posted here.

Marie Gail, this blog’s for you. 😉

16 January 2015

Published January 14, 2015 by rochellewisoff

Remember the goal is to write a COMPLETE story. BEGINNING, MIDDLE AND END.

The next photo is the PROMPT. What speaks to you? Tell us in a hundred words or less.

*Note: To share a photo you think would make a good prompt please send it to this email address: runtshell@gmail.com. Thank you*

My story follows the prompt and the blue inLinkz frog. I enjoy honest comments. 😉

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

WORDS OF WISDOM

“I pressed your clothes,” said Mary. “Mind Dad and look after your brother whilst I’m in hospital.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Paul buttoned his shirt. “Deese are me bezzies.”

“Stop it. I’ve taught you better, now haven’t I?”

“Not half.” He quipped in falsetto. “The Queen’s English. Ever so posh.”

She looked as if she wanted to scold him more. Instead, she embraced him and said, “If I don’t come back…”

Emptiness flooded the boy.

“Of course you’re coming back. Who’ll cook for us if you don’t?”

“There will be an answer.” Mary McCartney kissed her son and whispered, “Let it be.”

*

Want more?

Voice of a Spanish Dancer – Refracted Bliss

Published January 10, 2015 by rochellewisoff

REFRACTED BLISS

Sub-zero-degree temperatures and frigid winds for the past week have kept me indoors. Whenever I’ve thought about making the less-than-a-mile trek to the fitness center I’ve talked myself out of it. Although my vacation plans included swimming to my heart’s content, stinging cold has made it easy to curl up with a hot cup of coffee instead.

This morning the walls close in on me and I’m drowning in a sea of despair. I know what I need to do. No matter how cold, wet or icy, I’ll let nothing stand between me and the lap pool.

I pack my gym bag and layer two sweaters, jeans and a heavy coat over my swimsuit. My car’s thermostat reads 16º.

In the locker room I hurriedly peel off the layers and head for the pool. It’s uninhabited and the water’s a clear sheet. All mine.

I slip in and submerge fully then propel myself through the cool water that rushes over and carries me to another place.

Sunlight shining through the long windows paints ribbons across the pool’s blue floor.

Smoother than silk, water is a lover’s gentle caress that massages my bare skin and whispers peaceful words of reassurance in my ear. “You are alive. You are changing. You are safe.”

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It was so worth it!

9 January 2015

Published January 7, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The following photo is the ubiquitous PHOTO PROMPT. Study it. There are many roads you can take. Tell us where it leads in a hundred words or less.

*BEGINNING, MIDDLE AND END *

As always, my story follows the prompt and inLinkz. I welcome and appreciate constructive crit.

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

WILD ONIONS

Catherine DuSable raised her hands to the sky and danced along the shore of the Eschikagou until a soft voice interrupted her reverie.

“Mama, I can’t sleep.”

Catherine turned to see Susannah whose tight black curls and dark skin glowed in the moonlight. So like her beloved Jean-Baptiste. Catherine scooped the child into her arms.

“When I was little I prayed to Kichi Muhnido, the Great Spirit, for peaceful dreams.”

“You mean St. Raphael. Papa says…”

“For him I am Catholic, but in my heart of hearts I will always be Kitihawa, of the Bodéwadmi, keepers of the sacred fire.

This is primarily a work of my imagination. I followed the history trail but every account varied a little as did the spellings of the names. Here is a link to one of the articles.