This past week I posted a flash fiction of a granddaughter’s devotion to her grandmother who was a Holocaust survivor. I wrote it as a sequel to a story I posted the week before. One of our participants, an Israeli herself, Na’ama Yehuda, told me she knew someone who had done what the granddaughter did in remembrance. CLICK HERE TO READ
After one commenter asked about the configuration of numbers, I went to You Tube to find video footage to back my story. This video is a brilliant illustration of a phenomenon among children and grandchildren of Holocaust survivors. I’m so touched by this I must share.
HAPPY NEW YEAR AND WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS!
May it be a good year, filled with prosperity, happiness and publication dreams fulfilled.
Henry David Thoreau said it best.
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
In 2014, as in 2013, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints.
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)
Make every word count.
- Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
- MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH.
- While our name implies “fiction only” it’s perfectly Kosher to write a non-fiction piece as long as it meets the challenge of being a complete story in 100 words.
- ***PLEASE MAKE NOTE IN YOUR BLOG IF YOU PREFER NOT TO RECEIVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.***
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Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.
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Genre: Historical Fiction
Word count: 98
THE SINS OF THE FATHER
When I was young, my mother deflected my questions about her time in Auschwitz.
“What’s past is past. Be happy.”
“Are you happy, Mom?”
I hounded her until she told me more than I was prepared to hear. For years her pain and bitterness clenched my heart.
“Promise me, Rivka,” she whispered from her deathbed.
In the stillness of dawn I scatter her ashes in the Sola River near the camp. As they swirl and sink beneath the water to join those of the beloved grandparents I never met, I feel her fingers release my heart.