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.
Morning sunlight bathed Gertrude’s violin as she played a mournful melody. Although twelve years had passed, she would never forget the moment at the Quaker school her heavy braids tumbled to the floor, clipped by the teacher’s cruel scissors.
Education meant nothing if she didn’t use it for good. Her people’s spirits called to her, yearning to be free.
She plucked the pins from her hair. It fell around her shoulders like a black cape.
“I will be their voice. I am no longer Gertie.” She raised her fist. “I am Zitkala-Za of the Yankton Sioux, granddaughter of Sitting Bull.”
To know more about this trailblazing woman CLICK HERE
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.
“Not now, Evan.” Rosemary yanked off her glasses and glared at her four-year-old son. “Can’t Mommy have five minutes to herself?”
His brown eyes welled. “I need a hug.”
Setting her book aside, she heaved an exasperated sigh. “I need your nap.”
He climbed up on her lap and pressed his soft cheek against hers. In that moment she imagined him as a grown man with a prickly beard. She tightened her arms around him and gave him a loud smooch.
He giggled. “Do you still want me to go away, Mommy?”
*Note: The photo prompt is meant to be the INSPIRATION for your story not an ILLUSTRATION of it.
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.
For Jeffrey, trying to learn Latin was somewhat akin to pushing a cart sideways—uphill. Verb tenses made him tense. Nouns didn’t compute.
He stared at his teacher’s one word comment scrawled across his most recent quiz. “Mr. Bland, what does ‘tennible’ mean?”
Mr. Bland leaned back in his chair. “Let’s explore the Latin roots. ‘To have. To hold.’ Teneo, I have. Tenet, you have…from that root we arrive at ‘tenable—capable of being held.’”
Jeffrey presented his paper. “Why did you write it on my test?”
Taking it from the boy, Mr. Bland frowned. “That’s not tenable. That’s ‘terrible.’”
My brother Jeffrey and his wife Debbie.
*The title is Latin for Handwriting. The story itself is not my own, but my brother’s. It was too good not to share.
This week Pegman takes us to the capital of Latvia, in Riga’s Old Town. Your mission is to write up 150 words inspired by the location. Feel free to use the image supplied, or venture around Riga for something that inspires you. You may write fact or fiction, poetry or prose. The only only requirement is to keep your piece at 150 words or less, as a consideration to others.
Once your piece is polished, share it with others using the linkup below. Reading and commenting is part of the fun!
As always, thanks to Karen and Josh for heading up the challenge.
Click the frog to read other stories and add your own.
Peitav Synagogue in Riga, Latvia was built in 1905. It has survived the Holocaust and bombings in the 1990’s.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED
Katya played Chopin’s “Berceuse” on the imaginary piano in her coat pocket with trembling fingers. She tried to keep pace on the frozen path.
Without success, she tried to block out the image of her father, the cantor, lying in the street, his magnificent voice forever stilled. Latvia’s November wind whipped through her.
She remembered when Professor Philipp at the conservatory in Paris proclaimed, “Katya Abramis, you have an exquisite talent.”
“Schnell!”
A drunken soldier ripped an infant from a young mother’s arms and shot him. She dropped to her knees only to suffer the same fate as her son. The snow turned red beneath them.
“Shoes in this pile, clothes in that.”
Katya obeyed. What choice did she have?
Standing naked at the edge of a deep pit, Katya pictured her beloved synagogue and heard Papa sing “Lord of the World, Who was, Who is, Who is to come.”
There is little on the internet about Cantor Abram Abramis or his daughter Katya, renowned pianist of her time. Both perished in the 1941 Massacre in Riga. CLICK HERE for my source.
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.
Today Pegman travels to the Florida Keys at the bottom of the United States. Like the other Torch Keys, it was probably named for the native Torchwood tree.
Stroll and around and see if you can find something that interests you. When you’re done, write 150 words and link to the prompt using the frog below. Remember, reading and commenting is part of the fun!
Thanks to Josh and Karen for hosting this weekly challenge.
To play add your story click the frog.
Sunset Siesta Florida Key
This week I revisited an oldie posted for Friday Fictioneers in January of 2013. It seems to fit the prompt so I added 50 more words. 😀
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
PENANCE
Jonathan gazed at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Self-loathing flooded him. He took pen in hand, the hand that only an hour before had closed the eyes of a deceased child, still hot with fever. Imagining his beloved’s sweet countenance, Jonathan wrote:
3 December in the year of our Lord 1765
Dearest Catherine,
It is with deep regret I write that I shan’t return to England. I cannot for I would not have you plight your troth to a murderer.
Now I must remain to make amends.
At the first the savage misliked me and I feared him. But over time we became friends. Together we laughed and fished the Seminole way in this Florida paradise.
Surely these people threaten us with war. Yet it was neither my musket nor my dagger that felled my warrior brother and his son, but my white man’s curse—smallpox.
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.
May 1984. We couldn’t wait to take advantage of our newly-purchased lot in a nearby recreational development. So we packed our children-plus-one and everything we needed for a successful camping trip.
Sometime in the night the soothing buzz of locusts gave way to thunder and driving rain that demolished our tents.
Thanks to the help of a sympathetic grounds attendant, our excursion ended in a half-finished bathroom with three bedraggled boys and one engorged mother whose inconsolable baby chose the worst time to wean himself.
Shivering, I muttered to my grumpy husband. “Someday we’ll look back at this and laugh.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 