Buried memories

All posts tagged Buried memories

“WHAT THE HELL IS A PENTIMENTO?”

Published December 21, 2023 by rochellewisoff

PHOTO PROMPT © Rowena Curtin

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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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20 October 2017

Published October 18, 2017 by rochellewisoff

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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. 

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Please be considerate and keep your stories to 100 words. Thank you. 

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This is a scene from AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN, the third in my Havah Cohen Gitterman trilogy. By the third book, the characters have survived the hardships of Eastern European persecution. Many of them are dealing with what we know today as PTSD. This scene takes place in 1907 when little was known, much less addressed. 

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

AMNESIA 

            “All these years the only thing I remembered was her suicide. I’ve hated her for it,” Shayndel shuddered. “How could I forget why?”

            “You were only five,” whispered Fruma Ya’el. “It’s understandable—”

            Shayndel buried her head in her hands. “‘Jew bitch,’ they called her. ‘Get help!’ she begged me. But I couldn’t move. I—I watched as they—”

            Protracted memories riddled Shayndel. “Bayla never spoke again—until the morning she…she climbed the tree in the yard to the highest branch. Naked. Great with child. She spread her arms, smiled at me and said,” Shayndel choked, “‘Goodbye, little sister.’”

 

 

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