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 Pegman takes us to Baltimore, Maryland. Feel free to visit the library at the Peabody Institute of Johns Hopkins University Or cruise around Baltimore and find your own street view or photo sphere for inspiration.
Your mission is to write up to 150 words inspired by this week’s location. Once your piece is polished, share it with fellow contributors using the link up below.
After entertaining guests for a week and another week to recover from all the festivities, I’m ready to revisit Pegman. Thanks so much to Karen and Josh for co-hosting this group of globetrotting writers.
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
I would call this an excerpt from my most recent novel AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN. However it’s actually a tweaked scene boiled down from over 600 words to a 150 word stand-alone. At any rate, a great challenge and a pleasant visit to two favorite characters. Not exactly about Maryland, but a tenuous connection. 😉
THE GENDER TRAP
The woman skimmed a gloved hand along the top of the medicine cabinet and peered at the rows of bottles. “I assume you sterilize. I insist everything should be as clean as humanly possible.” Straightening, she extended the same hand. “I’m here to answer your ad.”
Florin’s tongue stuck to his teeth. “So sorry, my dear, I’ve hired a nurse.”
She withdrew her hand. “I am Eleanor Whitaker Turnbull, MD. Have you already hired a physician as well?”
Florin mopped his perspiring brow. “No I haven’t. But such an attractive—I thought—”
Her sorrel gaze pierced him. “I know exactly what you thought, Doctor. You’re a man after all.” She took a framed diploma from her carpet bag. ”I graduated from the New York Medical College for Women, class of 1892. Suma Cum Laude. I served my internship at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland. Perhaps you’ve heard 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.
As always, please be considerate to your fellow fictioneers and keep your story to 100 words or less. This does not include the title. Thank you and Shalom.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
TURN THE PAGE
“Happy birthday!” Grandma sang out in her Kentucky drawl. “G’wan, child, open your present.”
Heart thumping, Karen tore open the colorfully wrapped package. “I hope it’s my Cabbage Patch doll! Oh boy, it’s—” She fought tears.—“Tom Sawyer by M-mark Twain. Thank you.”
Grandma’s eyes flashed. “Disappointed, aintcha?”
“No, I…”Karen braced herself for a ‘when I was your age’ story.
“Betcha never heared o’ the Pack Horse Librarians.”
“Huh-uh.”
“Not many have, I reckon. In the Great Depression, them valiant ladies braved hell and high water on horseback just so’s us hill kids could have something to read.”
This week Pegman visits Bristol in the southwest of England. This week’s location was suggested by the talented and inspiring Kelvin M. Knight, blogger and flash fiction ninja. If you haven’t already, wander over and check out his blog.
Your mission is to write a 150-word story, poem, or essay inspired by this week’s location. You’ll find both photo spheres and streetview to inspire you. Once your piece is polished, please share it with other Pegman contributors using the link up below.
It has been one majorly busy weekend with an unexpected trip to the ER and a whole day lost. Here it is Monday morning…still catching up on Friday Fictioneers and posting a late Pegman story. What am I meshuggeh? On the other hand, the following tweaked snippet from AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN puts me closer to having A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY completed. So it’s all good, right? Of course right!
Colston Hall in Bristol taken in 1917
Genre: Historical Fiction (Vienna 1908)
Word Count: 150
FUROR
Deep satisfaction surged through Ulrich. Four-year-old Rachel enthralled audiences across Europe, from Colston Hall in Bristol, to, just days before, in Vienna’s Musikverein.
“Rachel is a magnificent talent,” said Catherine.
“A prodigy. My little Mozart.”
The steady clop of the horses’ hooves along the cobblestones lulled Ulrich as they made their way around the circular courtyard called the Schwarzenbergplatz.
He stopped the carriage. “The famous Hochstrahlbrunnen fountain.”
“It’s simply gorgeous!”
In the midst of a large round pool, a geyser-like fountain spotlighted from below illuminated the night sky, by turns, with purple, blue, yellow, green and red.
A strident voice split through the peaceful water’s swooshing. A rail-thin youth gestured with the fervor of one addressing thousands rather than one equally scrawny youngster.
“These strange ones with their ugly language that sounds like snuffles and squeaking and their odd dress have no place here. We are Germans. ‘Deutschland über alles!’”
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 is a scene from AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN, the third in my Havah Cohen Gitterman trilogy. By the third book, the characters have survived the hardships of Eastern European persecution. Many of them are dealing with what we know today as PTSD. This scene takes place in 1907 when little was known, much less addressed.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
AMNESIA
“All these years the only thing I remembered was her suicide. I’ve hated her for it,” Shayndel shuddered. “How could I forget why?”
“You were only five,” whispered Fruma Ya’el. “It’s understandable—”
Shayndel buried her head in her hands. “‘Jew bitch,’ they called her. ‘Get help!’ she begged me. But I couldn’t move. I—I watched as they—”
Protracted memories riddled Shayndel. “Bayla never spoke again—until the morning she…she climbed the tree in the yard to the highest branch. Naked. Great with child. She spread her arms, smiled at me and said,” Shayndel choked, “‘Goodbye, little sister.’”
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.
With its battered tin roof it looks like an old warehouse that has been abandoned. The windows aren’t broken and the concrete walls look rough. What story does this old shell of a building with its brick chimney tell you? Can you tell the rest of us in 100 words?
“Jinny was barely growed. 1914-1934” Her lower lip quivered as she traced the dates on the headstone with a frail finger. “She earned $17.50 a week painting them glow-in-the-dark clock numbers.”
Wind gusting across St. Columbus Cemetery chilled me. “Let’s get you home, Mrs. Abbot.”
“Not yet. I want you to see.” She seethed and brandished a Geiger counter probe over her sister’s grave. “Jinny took sick. Strange. Her jaws done crumbled. Died like the other girls at her factory. The doctors made lame excuses. Damned liars is what they was.” The machine sputtered. “That sound like Diphtheria to you?”
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It’s a long read, but if you want to know more of the story
There’s an abundance of both street view and photo spheres in this beautiful city. Feel free to stroll around the area using the Google street view and grab any picture you like for your post.
Your job is to write a 150-word (or less) story about this week’s chosen location. Where will you take your readers? You’re invited to join the talented writers of Pegman this week in St. Petersburg, Russia.
To enjoy this week’s stories or to submit your own, visit the inLinkz button:
For guidelines and rules for the What Pegman Saw weekly writing prompt, visit the home page.
As you may already know, I’m currently working on getting my fourth book A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY ready for publication. It will be a collection of illustrations and excerpts depicting characters and scenes from my novel trilogy. These excerpts seem to lend themselves to 100-150 word flashes. This week’s location was the perfect opportunity. Thank you for your indulgence and your help. 😉
St. Petersburg Philharmonic
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 149
ELEGY
With the unpleasant task of delivering bad news to a dear friend and former patient behind him, Dr. Nikolai Derevenko settled back for the evening. In an attempt to cheer himself, he picked up his flute from the table, brought it to his lips and played a Bach sonata. Usually the music would lift his spirits, but tonight it only intensified his loneliness as he reflected on his life, beginning with the day he informed his father he had chosen to go to medical school.
Sergei Derevenko, a prominent violinist in the St. Petersburg Philharmonic, eyed Nikolai with a mixture of anger and hurt.
“You’d rather slice people open and wallow in their blood and bile than delight thousands of patrons with your talent? I don’t understand you, Kolyah.”
Feel free to stroll around using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post.
To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:
This challenge has become a favorite of mine and I couldn’t bear to miss it this week. This weekend has been an incredibly busy one. And as I’m working toward Book Four of my trilogy (coffee table companion book of illustrations and character studies), I hope you’ll forgive my posting an excerpt from my first novel PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME.
While the photo I chose is in Cirque de Navacelles, my story is not.
Genre: Novel Excerpt
Word Count: 149
CAST FROM HER FATHER’S HOUSE
Rocks, frozen grass and thorns stabbed the soles of her bare feet. There had been no time for shoes, no time to dress.
Who would pray for their souls? Who would remember David, the artist or Mendel, the poet or Mama or Papa? She forced her heavy mouth to shape the Hebrew prayer—Kaddish—prayer for the dead and prayer for the bereft.
“‘Magnified and sanctified is your great Name…’”
Havah Cohen detested its beauty. Her hands, held over her ears, could not blot out the anguished cries of friends and neighbors, fast becoming memories.
“‘…in the world which you have created…’”
Thorns grabbed at her nightgown and she fought to ignore the fire in her lungs. “‘…according to Your will.’”
Run.
Brambles ripped into her flesh.
Run.
The muscles of her legs burned.
Don’t stop. Run.
“‘Let His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.’”
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.
“Andrea should know the truth,” said Myron. “May her father’s memory be blessed.”
“The truth is she’s an American citizen now.” Cerulean eyes brimming, Gabrielle stroked her slumbering daughter’s golden curls. “Forget her father. Forget France.”
Myron embraced his bride and drank in her fragrance. “Your survival is miracle.”
“A ‘miracle’ based on lies—forged papers and a fiancé in the Wermacht. Could’ve fooled Himmler himself.” She sniffed. “I should’ve died with my brunette sisters at Auschwitz.”
Myron’s breath caught in his throat. “Fiancé?”
“The truth is my Albrecht loved me no matter what. I…willingly gave birth to his Lebensborn.”
Feel free to stroll around using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post.
To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:
They say location is everything. Many thanks to Karen Rawson and her highly significant other, J Hardy Carroll for hosting and sharing a new location to challenge us every week.
Chicago River
Some reading might remember this story from Friday Fictioneers two years ago. I took the liberty of revisiting and adding fifty words to it.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
SHIKAKO
“Place Where the Skunk Weed Grows”
Catherine DuSable walked along the shore of the Eschikagou while her beloved Jean-Baptiste slept. Today a steady stream of customers had come to their trading post to buy and sell. Usually she enjoyed the stories they shared.
One trapper eyed her. “What you want for that fine squaw, Monsieur DuSable?”
“My wife is not for sale.”
She raised her hands to the sky and danced beside the waters, shaking off the trapper’s leering image.
“Mama, I can’t sleep.”
She turned to see Susannah whose tight black curls and dark skin glowed in the moonlight. So like her father. Catherine scooped the child into her arms.
“When I was little I prayed to Kichi Muhnido, the Great Spirit, for peaceful dreams.”
“You mean St. Raphael. Papa says…”
“For him I am Catholic, but in my heart of hearts I will always be Kitihawa, of the Bodéwadmi, keepers of the sacred fire.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 