PTSD

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Weekend Writing Prompt – War Wound

Published May 9, 2020 by rochellewisoff

A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend.  How you use the prompt is up to you.  Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like.  Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise.  If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in Sammi’s Comment Section.

WAR WOUND

In research for a character in my novel-in-progress, I’ve watched some You Tube interviews with Vietnam veterans. Recently, one in particular captured my attention. The gentleman, who’s had a successful career as an actor since his discharge, spoke candidly of his deployment and subsequent wounding.

“Thirty years later, after bouts of alcoholism and depression I sought help for PTSD and found healing.”

He shrugged. “Thanks for your service? What does that mean? I get it. You mean well.” His voice caught in his throat and my breath caught in mine when he said, “I like best what we vets say to each other since we didn’t hear it when we came back, ‘Welcome home.’”

INSTINCT

Published October 13, 2019 by rochellewisoff

This week Pegman takes us to the Arlington National Cemetery in Washington DC, USA.

Your mission is to write up to 150 words inspired by the prompt. Feel free to use the location supplied above, our take your own tour of Washington D.C. via Google maps and find a view that inspires you.

You may write poetry, prose, essay, limerick, sonnet, or fiction of any flavor. Once your piece is polished, share it with others at the linkup below. Reading and commenting is part of the fun.

Thanks to Karen and Josh for facilitating this unique challenge. To join click the frog.

image-arlington_national_cemetery_public_domain-10944

This week I revisited and fleshed out a story I posted in Friday Fictioneers four years ago. 

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 150

INSTINCT

            Six years my senior, my gentle brother was my hero. He was the valedictorian of his graduating class. Awarded a scholarship to Harvard, he owned the future.

            I had just turned twelve when his draft notice came. Vietnam consumed every newscast. Mom was inconsolable.

            The day he left to go overseas I clung to him and sobbed. “I’ll never see you again.”

            “Duty calls, Sis.” He pinched my cheek and kissed my nose. “I’ll be back. You’ll see.”

            “Promise?”

            “Promise.”

***

            Tonight we celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday. His hands tremble as he cuts the cake. The knife falls from his fingers and tears stream down his stubbled cheeks.

            “I cut off their ears and hung them from a chain on my belt loop.” He swallows a pill with a swig of beer. “Thirty-six kills. God, I miss it.”

            My brother did come back from Vietnam but he never returned.    

   

 

20 October 2017

Published October 18, 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 © Sandra Crook

Please be considerate and keep your stories to 100 words. Thank you. 

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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.’”

 

 

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