15 July 2022

Published July 13, 2022 by rochellewisoff

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Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100

HE NEVER GOT A DINNER

Papa put the finishing touches on a straw hat, placed it on his head and, to little Aaron’s delight, broke into a soft shoe.

Mr. Jerwick applauded and laughed. “I’ll take the hat, Mr. Chwatt. But I’m no dancer.”

“Hey Pop,” said sixteen-year-old Aaron. “Check out my uniform for my new job.”

“Doing what? So many buttons.”

“I’m a singing bell boy.” Aaron raked his fingers through his wavy red hair. “Making people smile—like you, Pop. And how about my stage name?”

From Vaudeville to Broadway and film, history will forever remember award-winning entertainer Red Buttons with a smile.

Aaron Chwatt was the son of Jewish immigrants. His father, Michael Chwatt made his living as a milliner in New York’s Lower East Side who enjoyed entertaining his customers.

RED BUTTONS NEVER GOT A DINNER

21 May 2021

Published May 19, 2021 by rochellewisoff

Dear Friday Fictioneers,
😦 Our friend and fellow Friday Fictioneer in Friday Harbor (of all places) has suffered a stroke. We wish him a swift recovery. And for those who would like to send him a card or note to cheer him on, email me at rwisofffields.wordart@gmail.com for the address.
Shalom,
Rochelle

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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.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

THE GOLDEN DOOR

5 July 1887

Dearest Anya,

“Greetings from the city of New York. Last night I went to watch fireworks and see the new Statue of Liberty. She is magnificent. I can’t wait until you see her with your own eyes.

You ask how I am. What could be better than living in the land of opportunity?

Angry shouts echoed from downstairs. Shlomo stopped writing his letter and surveyed his one-room apartment. He continued, “There are no Cossacks.” A baby howled in the flat next door. Shlomo’s stomach rumbled. He looked out at the peaceful street and wrote, “All is well.”

***

Original artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

24 January 2020

Published January 22, 2020 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 © 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

3 January 2020

Published January 1, 2020 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.

(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.

8 September 2017

Published September 6, 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.