San Juan Island

All posts tagged San Juan Island

November 12, 2021

Published November 10, 2021 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 © Ted Strutz

I received a post card from Ted last week. It’s apparent that Ted is working off his back end in rehab and I was thrilled to get something written in his own hand. Keep up the good work, Ted! He asked if I could write a story about a lighthouse. So the following is my story.

Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100

KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT

“Play me a song, Mormor.” Six-year-old Agnes clapped her hands.

Helga Settles looked up from her bread dough. “Is that the proper way to ask your grandmother?”

The child pouted. “Please.”

Hilma poised her violin bow. “What would you like to hear, lilla gummun?”

Lilting music swelled the kitchen. Helga gazed out at the sea. Her Arvel, father of her five children, would soon be home from his twelve-hour shift at Lime Kiln Lighthouse. Tomorrow guests would fill their house.

She breathed in the aroma of baking sponge cake. Salmon sizzled on the stove. No one left Helga’s table hungry.

To learn more about the Settles family CLICK HERE

  • If you’d like to send Ted a card or note to encourage him, email me at rwisofffields.wordart@gmail.com for the snail mail address. 😀

23 June 2017

Published June 21, 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 © Ted Strutz

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Genre: Speculatively Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

DESIGNATION

 

 Slow moving traffic and gray skies contributed to Ted’s equally gray mood. The rhythmic thump and swish of windshield wipers lulled him.

            He had almost drifted off when banging on his passenger-side window startled him. Leaning over, he opened the door.

            “Mahalo, hoaloha. I must get back to my sheep near the harbor.”

            “Friday Harbor?” Ted stared at the stranger’s crescent-shaped eyes and old fashion clothing. “Where’re you from?”

            “Hawaii, but I work for Fort Cowitz.”

            “They shut down in 1869. What’s your name?”

            “Poalima. ‘Friday’ in English.”

            A horn’s blast made Ted jump and the stranger vanished like steam.  

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Mahalo, hoaloha – thank you, friend.

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