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.
My dad held my hand as we walked along the boardwalk. The sea breeze riffled through my hair and the food scents tantalized my nostrils.
“The Steeplechase was my favorite.” Daddy mused. “You mounted a mechanical horse on a rail and whoosh! Instant horserace. Too bad they tore it down years ago.”
We sat on a bench munching our Nathan’s hotdogs, replete with mustard and sauerkraut. Seagulls clambered over one another, competing for the crumbs we dropped.
Two lifetimes later, my grandson and I munch Nathan’s hotdogs and prepare to ride the new Steeplechase.
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.
On their flight to Oslo, Sonja rested against Niels’ shoulder. “My hero, my big brother taught me to fall. Leif said, ‘You fall the way a length of rope drops.’
“Good advice.” She giggled. “I fell on my bum in my first Olympic competition. Finished last. Only injured my pride.”
“I remember,” said Niels. “You were only eleven. Four years later you won your first Olympic gold medal.
“Figure eights.” She yawned. “Leaps and spins. The world was mine.”
“Still is, my love.”
“I’m so tired.”
“Sleep now.”
Fifty-seven-year-old Sonja Henie closed her eyes and skated to her final arena.
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.
Last night was my first time on the dance floor since my husband died five years ago. And this happens. I’m not sure which aches more, my fractured ankle or my pride. Chuck must think I’m a klutz.
I wait for the hydrocodone to kick in.
Why’d I let my pushy sister talk me into a blind date?
“I’m not ready,” I’d insisted.
“If not now—when?”
My phone rings.
Chuck’s delicious voice caresses my ear. “Sorry about my overgrown clodhoppers. I’d like to make it up to you over dinner. May I come over?”
Perhaps I’m ready after all.
***
Happily the above story is pure fiction. 😀 He’s very much alive, for which I’m grateful! Our friends and family gave us 6 months. Happy 49th Anniversary to my first husband, Jan Wayne Fields.
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.
Adolescent Arthur Fellig rented a pony and took pictures of neighborhood kids with his secondhand View Camera.
“I wipe their faces and give ‘em a ride.” He winked. “Then sell their folks the photos.”
Years later, armed with a police-band radio, Speed Graphic camera and a makeshift darkroom in his trunk, he lurked in the shadows of New York. His black and whites captured the city’s seamier side like no others.
“You’re always on time.” Amazed reporters shook their heads. “You must have a Ouija board or something. What’s your secret?”
“Ain’t no secret.” Weegee shrugged. “F/8 and be there.”
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 final Yuletide of the 19th century is upon us. What will the 20th hold? Perhaps we women will be allowed to vote.” Maud settled back against her pillows. “We’ll make it happen.” Light snow fell past her window. Nearby carolers sang, “Silent Night.”
Her latest illustration sat unfinished on her easel.
“Salutations, my little masterpiece.” She studied the infant in her arms. “I daresay those dark blue eyes shall turn brown. What a dear subject you’ll make, my Humphrey baby.”
“Humphrey baby indeed. Come to Papa, my son.” Maud’s husband Belmont lifted the child. “Merry Christmas, Humphrey Deforest Bogart!
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.
Miriam paged through tattoo parlor designs. “Should I get a rose or a bird?”
Eva’s faded eyes flashed. “Why blemish such beautiful skin?”
“You’ve got one, Bubbe.”
“I detest it.”
Miriam skimmed her fingertips over the numbers on her great-grandmother’s arm. “Why don’t you have it removed?”
“The needle burned into me while they carried Mama away. They silenced Papa’s pleas with a bullet.” A spectral smile spread Eva’s withered lips. “It took four of them to hold me down.”
“I get it. You keep it so you’ll always remember.”
“No, bubbeleh. I keep it so you will never forget.”
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 week marks my 8th anniversary as Friday Fictioneers facilitator and my 5th anniversary as a retired sign maker/cake decorator. So I’m taking the liberty of sharing a twofer.
Genre: Hysterical Faction
Word Count: 100
HONCHO DORI
My coworker and best friend was fired for saying, of all things, “Hunky Dory.” Her flippant reply to my “How’s your day going?” at her register. I kid you not. The charge was “sarcasm to a customer and, therefore, misconduct.” Seriously?
The company’s plan to purge the “old folks” put a target on my back, too.
At an emotional low I joined Friday Fictioneers. I tried it. I loved it. By October 24, I inherited the blog challenge.
Eight years later, my friend’s victorious lawsuit is a story we retell with glee. Friday Fictioneers? Yep, I’m still steering the bus.
It’s still hunky dory with us.
YEE-HAW!!!
I ran out words to tell you my friend was fired March 7, 2012 and I joined Friday Fictioneers a month later on April 12.
****
Now for the second go around as promised. 😉 I posted this 24 October 2012, after inheriting Friday Fictioneers from creator Madison Woods. This was the only time I didn’t title my post with the date. I was told by a fictioneer that it was too confusing for me to post my title because it gave the impression that my title was part of the prompt. I complied and never saw her again. Go figure. There are some fictioneers who stuck with me, even though they were here before me. You know who you are. 😉 If I list them I’m bound to leave someone out. At any rate here’s my first story as facilitator. Same photo prompt.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
OF SIGHT AND SOUND
A stunning contradiction of cropped black hair, bronzed skin and sea foam blue eyes, Aggie McKewen’s face reflected her Inuit and Scottish parentage.
Keith, who worked at his uncle’s café in Seward County, Alaska, longed to speak to her but didn’t know sign language and she was fencepost deaf. Every Saturday he served her grilled salmon in shy silence.
After six weeks of night classes he felt ready to declare himself and asked her out.
With a voiceless giggle she snatched his pen and order pad. There she wrote, “I’d love to but why did you call me a tampon?”
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.
Back aching, Mary boxed up a vacuum sweeper. After a lucrative evening she was weary and ready to go home.
She coaxed a smile. “You’re a lovely hostess, Mrs. Spoonemore.”
“Thank you for demonstrating Stanley products, Mrs. Rogers.” Ova handed her a jar with a penciled label. “A token of my appreciation.”
Mary opened it and sniffed. “What’s this?”
“My daddy’s hide-tanning formula. Keeps skin smooth and young-looking.”
Years later, tired of being passed over for promotions, Mary Kay bought the formula from Ova’s family for $500 and struck out on her own. The rest is pink history.
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.
“Seriously, Daddy?” Ariel jabbed her fork into a plateful of fishy-smelling seaweed. “You expect me to eat this?”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. Full of antioxidants, fiber, and vitamins,” said Louis. “Expertly prepared by Yours Truly. Ever hear of Euell Gibbons?
“Who?”
“Famous 1960’s naturalist. One winter, his family was down to their last egg and a few pinto beans. He went out and picked a knapsack full of puffball mushrooms, piñon nuts, and yellow prickly pear fruits. Kept them from starving.”
Ariel lifted a green strand, sniffed and grimaced. “It looks like something a Klingon would eat.”
Euell Gibbon, who became famous promoting Grape Nuts cereal. He took a lot of ribbing. Here he is taking a poke at himself.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 