Smiling Sam

Like us on Facebook

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

Frog Delightfully rendered by Keith Hillman.

CLICK THE FROG AND HOP ALONG

Genre: Non-Fiction

Word Count: 100

OF BLESSED MEMORY

זיכרונו לברכה

“I wish I’d known you better, Grandpa.”

My grandfather smiles at me from a black and white photo.

The few memories I have are shadowy and vague. The words ‘austere’ and ‘distant’ best describe him. My mother’s father—an enigma.

I regret never asking him about his life as a Jewish boy in Czarist Russia.

“Why did you flee to America?”

“Oy, don’t ask. You should never know such tzuris,” might he have answered? What horrors lurked behind those faded eyes?

I smile back at his monochrome image. “I hope you’re proud of my writing, Grandpa. You are my inspiration.”

Sam was a tailor.

Sam Weiner with twins Norman and Evalyne, my mom

My mother and grandpa with cousin George Weinberg

Grandpa Sam at Passover

Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

This week Pegman takes us to Wroclaw, Poland

Feel free to stroll around the area using the Google street view and grab any picture you choose to include in your post. Note that there is both streetview and photospheres at this location.

To enjoy stories inspired by the What Pegman Saw prompt or to submit your own 150-word story, visit the inLinkz button:

For guidelines and rules for the What Pegman Saw weekly writing prompt, visit the home page.

For some reason, I’m not getting my Pegman notification in my inbox. So I had to go looking for it. 😉 Good job J Hardy and K Rawson. Now you know I’m hooked. Not to mention that I’m typing this in a moving car on the way back from a writers conference in Branson, MO.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 150

BEDTIME STORY

“The Cossacks came to Poland to recruit soldiers into the Russian army.” Rhoda’s grandfather’s faded eyes filled. “Soldiers? Feh! It’s 1903. I am fourteen and live with my sister and her husband. She hides me under a pile of soiled diapers and bedding. Oy, the shtink. When the Cossacks leave, she kisses me and shoves me out the back door. ‘Go,’ she says. ‘to America.’”

Questions stuck in Rhoda’s throat like cold oatmeal. “You came by yourself?”

“Like an animal in the ship’s steerage level. Nu? It’s better than serving 40 years as a Jew in the Czar’s army.”

“How did you survive?”

“To see dis shriveled old man now you would not know what a clever boy he was. You live on the street, you learn quick.”

Rhoda hugged her pillow to her chest. “You must’ve had gobs of adventures!”

Zaydeh pinched her cheek. “Stories for another time, yes?”