31 January 2020

Published January 29, 2020 by rochellewisoff

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 © Dale Rogerson

JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT, CLICK THE FROG

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

In the Talmud it is written, “To save the life of one man is to save the world.”

TO SAVE ONE LIFE

Pain seared through the fifteen-year-old’s leg. “I’m so clumsy.”

“The snow is slippery. Needless to say, you won’t be dancing for a while, ma chérie.” The doctor’s kind eyes brimmed. “It’s a severe break. You need to be in hospital.”

“No, the SS—”

“Without medical care, one leg will end up shorter than the other.”

“Better to limp than be dead.” Huguette moaned.

“Then you’ll stay here—in my chalet.”

Today, Huguette is petitioning Yad V’Shem to recognize Dr. Frédéric Pétri of Val d’Isère as one of the Righteous among the Nations. Ken Y’hi Ratzon. May it be so.

To read more CLICK HERE. Thank you, Dale for sharing this with me.

No reason to include this video with this story. No reason.

24 January 2020

Published January 22, 2020 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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 © Na’ama Yehuda

Click Frog and Enjoy!

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

TRIBUTE IN CHOCOLATE, VANILLA AND COFFEE

“Rose, try my new flavor. It’ll be a sensation!” Reuben Mattus scooped a white dollop into a bowl. “How fortuitous that my injection pump should malfunction.”

“Nu?” His wife looked up from her ledger. “It’s vanilla ice cream. You’ve been making it for over forty years.”

“Not like this.”

The dense confection sent shivers of delight through her. “Oy, you’re right.”

“What do you think of Häagen-Dazs for a name?”

“What’s it mean?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. But it sounds Danish.”

“Why Danish?”

“To thank Denmark for its kind protection of our people from that mamzer who called himself the Führer.”

CLICK to know MORE

10 January 2020

Published January 8, 2020 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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 © C.E. Ayr

Click the Camping Frogs to Add your Link!

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

FREESTYLE INSOMNOLENCE

The clock beside the bed ticked. Zero-dark-thirty. 3:00 AM.

Sleep refused her while loons mocked. Ted snored away what remained of the night.

Snozzzz. Tick-snozz. Tick-tick. Snarzzzzzz.

“I give up!”

Elise slipped on her swimsuit and stepped outside. Campground lights reflected off the pool water. She dove in and swam until tension floated from her shoulders.

Ted snored his welcome when she tucked back in beside him. Deliciously drowsy, she checked the clock before drifting off. 5:00.

Two hours later, he shook her. Sun poured through the windows. “Hey lazybones, gonna sleep all day? How ‘bout a nice invigorating swim?”

3 January 2020

Published January 1, 2020 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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.

(However it’s mine…and a rerun. Some may remember it. 😉 ) Since we’re still in the holiday season I’m posting yet another rerun. This one is from January 2013.

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Click the Frog to Join the festivities!

Genre: Autobiography

Word Count: 100

SUNRISE, SUNSET

Every Sunday my mother dragged me to my grandfather’s house. She urged me to get to know him, learn from him. After all, he’d survived Russia’s pogroms. My family history.

I feared him and asked no questions. He offered no stories.

One week mom took a vinyl copy of Fiddler on the Roof for him to hear. His timeworn torso sank into his recliner as he listened to Tevye the milkman sing.

“If I were a rich man, yaba-deebee-deebee-bum.”

Fifty years later I still remember how my austere grandfather’s granite-hard eyes transformed to liquid quartz. “My father sang…just like that.”

***

I chose to share the following version of the song. It’s the one my grandfather listened to.

27 December 2019

Published December 24, 2019 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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

Click on the Frog to join the Festivities!

Due to my scheduling error, this has gone live on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. Consider it a Christmas or Hanukkah present. Easier to leave it than take it down and start over. Oops.

Shalom,

Rochelle

Happy Holidays to those who celebrate! This week I’m taking a break and posting a retread from nearly six years ago. Some may recognize the story. (different photo) A special thank you to those who have been with Friday Fictioneers as long or longer than I.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

A SOLDIER OF THE GREAT WAR

In 1918 Dad deployed to France singing “Over There” and returned, months later, a sullen shell.

Then, for Christmas 1919, Grandma gave me a stub-tailed, bull-terrier puppy.

Instead of the “you-can’t-keep-it” snarl I expected, Dad grinned.

“He’s the spittin’ image of the bravest soldier in the 102^nd. Bullets and mustard gas couldn’t defeat him.”

“He looked like a dog?”

“Not ‘looked like,’ son. I’d a never made it outta the trenches if that pooch hadn’t…”

Dad coughed and blinked, took my pup under one arm, straightened to attention and raised his hand-hook to his brow.

“Sergeant Stubby, I salute you!”

20 DECEMBER 2019

Published December 18, 2019 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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 © Dale Rogerson

Click the Frog & Hop Aboard!

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

STRONG MEDICINE

Susan rocked three-year-old Pierre as she watched snow fall outside the window. She kissed his damp forehead.

Six-year-old Caryl padded into the room and climbed up beside his brother. “Can you make him well, Momma?”

She tweaked Caryl’s nose. “He’ll be breaking your toys by breakfast.”

“You’re the bestest.” Caryl’s dark eyes shone. “Why did you become a doctor?”

“I was a little older than you when I watched a sick woman die. Mama sent for the doctor—not once, but four times.”

“Why didn’t he come?”

“To him she was an Indian like us and her life didn’t matter.”

CLICK HERE FOR MORE INFO

13 December 2019

Published December 11, 2019 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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 © Mikhael Sublett

Give us a little click.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

KEEPSAKE

Hadassah stood amid the ruins of her once elegantly furnished home.

She ached for two-year-old Aaron who had been seized and taken to the gas chamber. Peter took a bullet trying to save their son.

Typhoid claimed thirteen-year-old Gittel hours before the liberation.

Seven-year-old Gittel held out a piece of paper splotched with color.

“What is it?”

The child huffed. “Anyone can see it’s a butterfly.”

“Our daughter’s an artist.” Peter beamed. “I’ll frame it.”

“How on earth…?” With a gasp, Hadassah dropped to her knees and pulled the unscathed picture from the rubble.

“I painted it for you, Mama.”

6 December 2019

Published December 4, 2019 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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.

SWIM ALONG WITH FROGGIE -CLICK!

Genre: Non-Fiction Out of Mind Experience

Word Count: 100

OUT THERE

Laps. Freestyle. I count backward from esreem v’arbah…backstroke, veintitres,…breaststroke, esreem v’shtayeem…and so on. The water’s rhythm sets my mind and spirit free. Free-flowing.

Somewhere around shtem-esrey, I lose count and go into some sort of trance. A waking dream. Keep swimming. Lights flash. Mirrors, as if on a carousel, spin about me. They reflect golden walls with Egyptian drawings. What side of the pool is this? Keep swimming. Gazing though the watery ceiling, I flip, change direction and dive under. Visions of nothing-in-particular bombard me.

Gertrude was right. “When we are in the water, we are not in this world.”

* Note: I can’t explain what happened, I can only tell you that this happened recently on Monday, October 28. At least this is the best way I know how to describe it.

Note 2: I count backward from 24 (3 sets of 24 actually, making it 72 lengths or 36 laps–a mile) alternating Hebrew with Spanish. It helps to keep me focused.

*

29 November 2019

Published November 27, 2019 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

Happy Anniversary to Jan Fields, my first husband for 48 years as of November 28!

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.

CLICK ON THE FROG TO JOIN

Genre: Historical Fiction circa late 1800’s

Word Count: 100

DIRECT OUR PATHS

“Dear Lord, we thank you for the bounty we are about to receive…for the Pilgrims and their faith…the first Thanksgiving…”

Folding her hands, ten-year-old Wawatseka renamed Victoria by her teachers, shut her eyes while Reverend Prichard droned on.

Grandfather’s stories wafted through her mind—a distant memory. “They feasted after each massacre of our people.”

Wawatseka’s ears ached for Mother’s songs and Father’s drumbeats. Detesting white gravy and mashed potatoes, Wawatseka longed for savory corn stew.

Thick fingers thumped her head. “Victoria! We’ve finished grace. What do you say?”

She glared at the reverend and, through clenched teeth, whispered, “Amen.”

22 November 2019

Published November 20, 2019 by rochellewisoff

Like us on Facebook

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.

CLICK ON THE FROG TO JOIN

Before beginning my rather somber story, I have some happy news. My WIP entitled “What the Heart Wants” is under contract with agent Diane Nine of Nine Speakers, Inc. To read more about it click here.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

PROJECT PINK

Dedrick intertwined his fingers with Levin’s long slender ones and stared at the ragged nails worn down by hauling stones from the quarry. Dedrick remembered winter nights when those elegant hands, never meant for such cruel labor, prepared succulent meals that would delight a king.

Levin’s hoarse voice brought him back to Auschwitz. “Dedrick, I—”

Dedrick pressed his finger against Levin’s chapped lips. “Save your strength.”

Bruises marred Levin’s flawless complexion. One long-lashed eye had swollen shut. He reached out and touched the pink triangle on Dedrick’s striped uniform. “You must know…”

Kissing Levin’s palm, Dedrick whispered, “I do.”