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.
“Ice skating” I replied. “The bowling alley just opened a new rink.”
***
Donning my rental skates, I visualized gracefully gliding across the ice like Peggy Fleming. As I stood, reality set in. My feet took off in two different directions.
I managed a faulty stride or two before Kevin seized my hand. We fell and slid on our butts. After a few more stabs at staying upright, he said, “If we hurry we can catch ‘Yellow Submarine.’”
I rubbed my sore bum. “Milk Duds and popcorn. Extra butter.”
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.
Allan sucked in his lower lip. Did Mom really say, “Your father and I are getting a divorce. Which of us do you want to live with?”
“Rose, the boy’s only eight,” said Dad.
Looking from one parent to the other, sensing no affection from either, Allen blurted out, “I want to live with Grandma and Grandpa Sherman. They love me.”
In the midst of his warped and disjointed world, being shuffled from house to house and school to school, Allan Sherman found comfort in food, writing and humor.
In 1962 his writing and humor made him an overweight success.
***
Allan Sherman’s bright star fizzled after President Kennedy’s assassination. In 1973 his poor life choices caught up with him and he passed away ten days shy of his forty-ninth birthday.
Allan Sherman has been called Weird Al Yankovic’s “Founding Faddah.” Reportedly, President John F. Kennedy was a fan of Mr. Sherman’s parody songs. To know a little more about the man under the beanie CLICK HERE.
The following photo is the PHOTO PROMPT, a cool picture for hot days, depending on your side of the globe. Where does it take you? Tell us in a hundred words or less.
“The weatherman says we can expect another six inches of global warming tonight.” Kent knelt and shaped a mound of wet snow into a ball. Then he stood and let it fly. “Look out, Taffy. Here comes some of your greenhouse effect!”
The snowball splattered against the back of Taffy’s head and ice rolled down her neck. She spun around. “How can you ignore what’s happening right under your nose?”
“Climate change? Hooey and hogwash!”
Taffy bent and dug a conch shell from a knee-high drift. “Doesn’t this weather strike you as being a bit odd for Florida in mid-July?”
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.
Yes, it’s one of “those” stories from me. (No apologies). The subject is heavy on the mind of Kansas Citians this summer as the Auschwitz exhibit “Not Long Ago. Not Far Away.” is at our Union Station until September. Not to mention, this weekend is Tisha B’av or the 9th of Av when, historically, many calamities befell the Jews, including the fall of the temple in 70 C.E. and the deportation from the Warsaw Ghetto (July 23, 1942) to Treblinka. It is observed with fasting as one of the saddest days on the Jewish calendar.
Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
THE HYENA
“The train took us to Auschwitz.” Marta tried to still her voice echoing in the microphone. “From there they forced us to walk to Bergen-Belsen.”
“How old are you, Marta?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
The lawyer pointed at the group of numbered defendants. “Are any of these familiar?”
A young woman glared at her with ice-blue eyes. Marta shuddered. “Number nine. She tormented starving children with scraps of food and whipped them to death when they cried.”
“I’ve heard Irma Grese laughed on her way to the gallows,” said Marta seventy years later. “Now I can laugh as she rots in hell.”
A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in Sammi’s Comment Section.
At twenty I had the requisite for motherhood—a husband and a womb. I danced for joy when the tests came back positive.
However, after Daniel’s birth, I resented him. I wanted sugar and spice. Instead, I got snips and snails.
One night, after putting the baby to bed, I turned on the television to an ad for flame retardant pajamas. Images of once handsome children, burned and scarred beyond recognition riddled me with guilt.
I bolted from the sofa to the nursery, gathered Daniel into my arms, inhaled his sweetness and whispered, “I love puppy dog tails.”
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.
A few might remember a longer version of this story I posted for “What Pegman Saw” in 2017. With the summer being as busy as it is, it seemed like a good time to share a rerun. 😉
Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
COUNTRY ROADS
“My dearest Jimmy,
Remember 1971? The year we came back from Vietnam. John Denver must’ve written his hit with you in mind.
“‘Pineville, West Virginia,’ you whispered low and sweet. Your eyes shone like the stars over the Shenandoah River. You laughed. ‘Just a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere.’
Nonetheless, to you it was ’almost heaven’.”
Sharon tucked the note inside his guitar and leaned it against his headstone. “I kept my promise to meet you here, Jimmy.”
Forever she would carry his face in her heart and hear his last words, “Nurse, please don’t let me die.”
***
In this image provided by the U.S. Army, the 2nd Brigade was faced with a new problem at their Bien Hoa, Vietnam base: from Fort Rilay to Vietnam come the 93rd Evacuation Hospital complete with nurses on Dec. 19, 1965. The problem of getting a private shower for the girls fell to Company B 1st Engineer Battalion. In the interests of the health, welfare and cleanliness of the nurses, the men of Company B decided to give up their own air-conditioned shower. The dressing area of the shower was boarded up and the entrance-way closed off. An appropriate “Off Limits” sign was made and posted. (AP Photo/U.S. Army)
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.
“He drove that VW Microbus with “Love is progress—hate is expensive” painted on the back from St. Johns Island to Charlotte.” Grandma Selma’s dark cheeks shone. “Thanks to him I earned three diplomas.”
“Who?” asked Tanisha.
“Who indeed? Girl, he should be in your history books. When he was just a little boy, he had to quit school after the 4th grade, but he still found ways to further his education. And then made sure us kids did the same. Took us to school or anywhere else we needed to go. Esau Jenkins was the wheels beneath our wings.
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.
Avraham set the seedling in the hole he had dug. “Blessed are You, Master of the Universe, Creator of life. May the memories of my Sarah and our little Isaac be blessed.”
Hannah helped Avraham cover the tender roots with sandy soil. “May the memory of my Shmuel also be blessed.”
Under Israel’s hot summer sun many others had come to plant. Their goal was to raise six million trees, one for each life taken.”
Avraham placed his hand on Hannah’s belly and smiled through his tears when their unborn child kicked. “By their deaths, they commanded us to live.”
The six million trees, planted in 1951 by Jewish National Fund, World B’nai Brith and immigrants, are a living monument of eternally green memorial candles for the six million of our people who perished during World War II.
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.
I came upon Noah and his crude cabin quite by accident while hiking in the Adirondacks back in 1938. Hospitable fella. Self-proclaimed mayor of Cold River City. Population: one.
“I left home as a youngster.” He puffed on his pipe. “I had my fill of American industrial slavery and highway carnage.”
“Don’tcha miss people?” I asked.
“Not much. I got my little garden. Fish in summer, venison in winter. An elegant sufficiency.”
In 1967 I read in the newspaper of Noah John Rondeau’s passing at the age of eighty-four in a hospital room. Not exactly the sendoff he’d hoped for.
A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in Sammi’s comment section.
BEFORE WE WENT THERE
“I bet I can make this one reach the stars.” Eight-year-old Alan spun the propeller of his latest model airplane. “Maybe it’ll even fly across the whole galaxy.”
“Aw, you’re goofy.” Bobby caught a firefly and dropped it into a fruit jar. “It’s just a toy.”
Alan dropped down on the ground. Cool grass tickled his neck. He gazed at the stars in the dark summer sky. “Someday. You wait and see. I’m going to fly clear to outer space.”
“Say hello to the little green men for me when you do.”
Alan Shepard was the first American to travel to outer space in May 1961. So began the Space Race.