History

All posts tagged History

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED

Published April 24, 2019 by rochellewisoff

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

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Yes, it’s me. Second time around this week. Sometimes ya just gotta take another dip in the Friday Fictioneers pool. 😉 

Genre: For my own a-MUSE-ment

Word Count: 100

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED

The gauntlet has been thrown with Neil’s comment, “Why don’t you write something about the future?”

            I could write a dystopian story about how the honeybees are dying causing famine from a lack of pollination. I did.

            I could write a story about our future being ruled by artificial intelligence, but I can’t raise the bar any higher than such authors as Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clark or Isaac Asimov already have.

            Lemme give it some thought.

            “Hey Siri, what kind of futuristic story should I write?”

            “George Santayana said, ‘those who cannot remember history are doomed to repeat it.’”   

 

12 October 2018

Published October 10, 2018 by rochellewisoff

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As always, please be considerate of your fellow Fictioneers and keep your stories to 100 words. (Title is not included in the word count.)  Many thanks. 

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 © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

CRY OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT

Ten-year-old Annie had never ridden on a train. Cousin Anastasia said it would take her and her brother to Springfield.  How odd. Stasia never kissed her before. What did Uncle John mean when he muttered, “Almshouse”?

            “D’ya think Nellie and Mama and Johnny are happy in Heaven, Jimmie?” Annie asked.

            His feverish snoring answered her. She wished she could see the scenery whizzing by.  

            “Not to worry, little one,” said her invisible faerie friend with an Irish brogue. “Someday you’ll do great things.”

            “Me? How? I’m only an ignorant blind girl nobody wants.”

            “Trust me, darlin’ Annie Sullivan. You will.”   

 

Helen Keller with Annie Sullivan Macy (Teacher)

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29 June 2018

Published June 27, 2018 by rochellewisoff

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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 © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

UNFORGETTABLE

            When Nathaniel tickled the ivories, he mesmerized Chicago’s jazz club audiences. The talented sixteen-year-old played for hot dogs, soda pop and pure joy. In 1935, he and his band, the Rogues of Rhythm, challenged the great Earl Hines and his Orchestra to a musical duel—and won.

            Twenty-one years later, Capitol Records’ leading vocalist became the first African American to host his own television program. Performers from Sinatra to Ella Fitzgerald clamored to donate their services. Despite rave reviews, white sponsors refused to back him.

            Fighting tears, Nat King Cole cancelled his show saying, “Madison Avenue’s afraid of the dark.”

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Buddy DeSylva, founder of Capitol Records, is quoted as having said, “If Nat Cole were white, he’d be bigger than Sinatra or Crosby.”

Here’s a clip from the ill-fated The Nat “King” Cole Show

21 April 2017

Published April 19, 2017 by rochellewisoff

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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 © Magaly Guerrero

PHOTO PROMPT © Magaly Guerrero

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

SPLIT WEEK

“Papa, how could you fire Joe?” Myra Cutler flung her dance shoes into her suitcase. “He was an asset to the show.”

“You’re only off by two letters.” Frank, head of the Cutler Comedy Club, embraced his seventeen-year-old daughter. “All that wastrel has on his mind is my talented baby girl. You’ve no future with him.”

 Pulling back, Myra clenched her teeth. “We’re going to be huge Vaudeville stars.”

___

A year later, in 1895, after a show in Piqua, Kansas, weary from performing, Myra gave birth to the third member of their act—Joseph Frank Keaton—better known as Buster.

***

keaton-family

Buster, Myra and Joe Keaton known in Vaudeville as “The Three Keatons”

For those unfamiliar with silent film star Buster Keaton, here’s a taste of his comedic genius. 

3 February 2017

Published February 1, 2017 by rochellewisoff

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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 © Roger Bultot

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

A WEAVER OF DREAMS

Not even a light breeze blew through the open window. As it did every night, sleep eluded Myrtle Reed. Sweat oozed from skin-folds under her ample arms.

“Why doesn’t this so-called windy city offer some relief from this fiendish heat?” She glared at the clock. “Eleven-thirty, August 17, 1911.”

She searched the street below for James. “He’s probably passed out drunk somewhere. I was so wrong. Love is not an orchid which thrives on hot air.”

Raising a bottle of sleeping powder to her lips, the young authoress swallowed disappointed dreams. “Insomnia be damned—forever. Happy anniversary my ‘model husband.’”

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15 March 2013

Published March 13, 2013 by rochellewisoff

LOOKING FOR FRIDAY FICTIONEERS? YOU FOUND US!

I dare you to write more than you see with your eyes. I double dog dare you!

******

March Birthdays Among Us (That I know about)

Bill “Zed Man” Webb – March 1

Janet “Sustainabilitea” Webb – March 15

If there are more out there let me know. 

******

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

  • Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
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**Please exercise DISCRETION  when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**

Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private. 

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🙂 My story will follow the prompt for those who might be distracted by reading a story before writing their own . I enjoy your comments. :)

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Copyright - Lora Mitchell

Copyright – Lora Mitchell



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Genre:-Autobiography

Word Count – 100

END OF AN ERA, SEPTEMBER 24, 1960

            Just the right balance of tin foil on rabbit ears chased away the ghosts and the black and white Zenith’s fifteen- inch picture wouldn’t flip during my favorite show.

            “Hey, kids. What time is it?”  

            “It’s Howdy Doody time!”

            Mute clown Clarabell chased Buffalo Bob with a seltzer bottle. Antics of the puppet population of Doodyville delighted me.

            One horrible Saturday Howdy said, “There’s no more show. It’s time to go.”  

            Then Clarabell spoke for the first time.

            “Goodbye, kids.”

            I sobbed, inconsolable, crushed by my first real loss in seven years. Even now the memory brings me to tears.

“Epilogue”

howdydoody2

Clarabell

THE CHAIRMAN’S SONG

Published September 28, 2012 by rochellewisoff

The lovely picture for Friday Fictioneers this week is from talented writer Sandra Crook. Here’s my offering for this week. Also, it would please this aspiring novelist if you’d also read my previous post. Comments welcome. 

Once a month twelve-year-old, American born Su-Yin spent the day with her grandmother. Before each time she groaned and protested.

“Nai-Nai doesn’t have a computer or even a TV.”

“Or one of these.” Mom snatched her daughter’s iPod.

“Communist!”

Flushed, Mom murmured something in Chinese the girl didn’t understand.

Later, Su-Yin pouted in Nai-Nai’s garden and stirred her vegetable rice with chopsticks while she waited for her monthly portion of poetry and boredom.

Instead of ancient verse, Nai-Nai whispered, “When I was your age I watched communists behead my father and murder my brother by a thousand cuts.” 

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