24 October 2014

Published October 22, 2014 by rochellewisoff

Flowers from the Hill Thoreau

Erie Canal

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The next photo is this week’s PROMPT. What kind of a story does it tell you? Tell the rest of us in a hundred words or less. 

My story follows the prompt and the blue  inLinkz frog. I appreciate  honest comments.

:D This week marks my second anniversary as your fearful leader. My first story as facilitator can be found here. Thanks to all who write, submit photos and support me week after week. I’m looking forward to a third great year.   :D



 *Note: There is only ONE PHOTO PROMPT.  Any photos or artwork following my story are meant to go with my story. Period!

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100


            A winter wind blew across the pond. Trina huddled close to Brian on the bridge as a flock of ducks fought for the breadcrumbs he threw.

            “Remember our wedding?” he asked. “Flowers in your hair. This same park.”

            “Forty-five years ago.” She shivered. “In June.”

            “I read where a pair of swans in England divorced.”

            “I thought they mated for life. What happened?”

            “Failure to breed.”

            “Are you saying you want a divorce because we couldn’t…?” She held her breath.

            He smiled and took her hand. “Let’s go home, my beautiful swan…”

            With love and affection, Trina whispered, “…and practice.”


Framed Swans

ORIGINAL ARTWORK. Copyright- Rochelle Wisoff-Fileds. Use by express permission only. Thank you.


Published October 20, 2014 by rochellewisoff


            This past year has not been the best year for my car. In fact I’m beginning to think it’s the incarnation of the Li’l Abner character with a cloud over his head. Remember him? For those of you who don’t…never mind.

            In the midst of our frigid Missouri winter, my Chevy Cruz’s heater went out. So it spent some time in the shop. Due to the lack of a small part that had to be ordered my car was MIA longer than expected.

            My joy at being back in my little car was short lived. The day after getting it back it died in the parking lot after work. This time it had to be towed to the dealership but not before I spent an hour in the car keeping warm and bandying words with the dingbat at the dispatch center. It seems she sent the tow truck driver to Lee’s Summit, Missouri when I’d specifically told her I was at 23rd and Lee’s Summit Road in Independence, Missouri.

            After another week in the shop, my car was returned in perfect working order. End of story? I wish.

            About a month ago, on the way to work, a deer on a suicide mission ran out in front of me. While I was shaken by it, I wasn’t hurt and the car was drivable. Thank God for insurance and a $100 deductible.

Front end after hitting the deer.

Front end after hitting the deer.

     A week ago last Thursday we were on our way home from an event when the driver of an SUV decided he needed our lane on the freeway as well as his own. He sideswiped us and barreled down the road not so gently into the rainy night.

            Of course, the car’s back in the shop. Because we filed a police report and it’s a clear case of hit and run it won’t count against us on our insurance. I’m also grateful to be here. It could’ve been so much worse.

            My story doesn’t end here.

            I’m part of a dying breed of people in the United States who prefer a standard transmission as opposed to an automatic.

            It wasn’t always so, but circumstances thirty-five years ago dictated.

            When Jan taught me to drive a stick he assured me coordinating my left foot and right hand would become second nature. I had my doubts as I popped the clutch and bounced down the street like a rubber ball.

            It happened as he said, though not overnight, it happened. Since then every car, I’ve owned has been a standard. 

            Ever hear of a loaner car with a standard transmission? I shouldn’t complain, right? It could be worse. At least I have a car.

            An automatic requires intense concentration. When coming to a stop, my left foot trembles and my right hand wanders aimlessly. More than once I’ve slammed both feet on the brake and nearly catapulted myself through the windshield.  

            Tonight, I hope, my car’s coming back home, with luck, slightly worse for wear and virtually unwrinkled. I might take her for drive to experience the sheer joy of downshifting to a stop.

            I hope my brake lights work.


17 October 2014

Published October 15, 2014 by rochellewisoff

Snorkeling in St. Thomas

Undersea St. Thomas 4 Meme

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The next photo is the prompt. There’s much to look at. What do you see? Tell me in a hundred words or less. Then click the blue froggy guy after the prompt and link your story URL.

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Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 99


            When I was five my father opened our home to his widowed aunt.    

            “Why can’t Obasan live with her own children?” I whined and stamped my foot.

            “Pikadon took them,” said Chichi. “We are her children now.”  

            “But she scares me.”

            I soon saw past Obasan’s scarred face. Her stories delighted me. She taught me how to construct flapping birds and intricate shapes from colored paper.

            One night she lay down to sleep and returned to the source.

            Every year at O-Bon I honor her with mukae-bi, dance and sake.

            Her elegant spirit surrounds me like a thousand winds.








10 October 2014

Published October 8, 2014 by rochellewisoff

Pane iced Banner

Ellehcor Banner FF

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Below is the photo prompt for the week. What do you see? What do you hear? Tell me in one hundred words or less, then click the blue froggy fella and link your story. My story follows the linkz and prompt. I appreciate honest comments and constructive criticism. 

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100


            The boy stared out the window beside his bed and listened to his Alyn Ainsworth record. He tapped his fingers on the night stand in time to the music.

            Sentenced to the ‘greenhouse,’ a children’s sanitarium, he’d celebrated his fourteenth birthday with tea, boredom and Streptomycin. Yet, after a year of incarceration, the doctors still considered Ritchie too ill to go home.  

            “Join our band,” said a nurse. “Bring your new banjo.”

            “I’d rather play drums.”

            Ten years later Ritchie smiled over his drum set at a sea of screaming teenagers as Ed Sullivan cried, “Ladies and gentleman, the Beatles!”






3 October 2014

Published October 1, 2014 by rochellewisoff

South KC Sky Banner

Friday Fictioneers Bookshelf

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The following photo is the prompt. Does it speak to you? What does it say? 

My story follows the photo and the blue froggy fella. Comments and suggestions appreciated.

unidentifiable on a stick

Copyright-Kent Bonham

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100


            “You must practice an hour a day,” said Mama. “People will come from miles around to hear you play. You have a gift.”

            “I hate the violin,” I yelled. “I don’t want to be a musician.”

            Once Mama made up her mind she only heard what she wanted to hear.

            What choice did I have? I was only six.

            Eight years later Mama’s prediction came true. People came from miles around to hear me play. My music was the last thing they heard on their way to the gas chambers.

            Sweet music, the only color in Theriesenstadt, saved my life.

Author’s note for those who may ask  how I arrived at this.

At first glance, this photo said nothing to me other than, “Yuck. Where’s the story in this and why did I choose it for a prompt?” At second glance I thought ‘dead bird.’ Nah. Trashed lollipop? Okay, forget about the articles, what about color? I didn’t see much of that. My mind went to the Holocaust, a part of history I think of in shades of gray. (Not the racy novel ;) ) Next, Terezin, a town in Czechoslovakia that was turned into a ghetto and renamed Theriesenstadt came to mind. There the Nazis made a propaganda film to show the outside world their kind treatment of the Jews, when, in reality, it was a holding place on the road to extermination for most. My research path ultimately inspired me to write REQUIEM IN C MINOR. Thank you for reading.



26 September 2014

Published September 24, 2014 by rochellewisoff

Flowers from the Hill Thoreau

Ellehcor Banner FF

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The next photo you see is the PROMPT. Study it. What does it say to you? Tell me in a hundred words or less. 

 My story follows the prompt and the link. Click on little blue froggy fella and add your link. If reading and commenting on every story is daunting, try reading the five prior to yours and the five following. ;)

get the InLinkz code

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 98


             Against the cold wooden floor, labor pains wracked Emily’s back. One after another they came, each harder than the last. She closed her eyes to shut out onlookers’ stares but couldn’t block out their voices.

            “Helluva place to have a kid.”

            “Pour me another, Fayette.”

           “Whaddya think, Gramps? Boy or girl?”

           “Quarter says ‘boy.’” 

            “Pay them no mind, Emily,” said Mama. “Push!”

             Over the din of cheers and clinking glasses William Griffith Wilson made his howling presence known.

            “Born behind Grandpa’s bar,” whispered Emily as she cuddled her newborn. “Don’t suppose it’s some kind of omen, do you?”


19 September 2014

Published September 17, 2014 by rochellewisoff


Blue Ceiling FF

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The following photo is the PHOTO PROMPT.  Where does it take you? Tell me your story. ;)

NOTE: All are welcome to participate but please tell the story on your blog page not in my comment section.

get the InLinkz code

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100


            “They say the minerals are curative.” My sister pointed to a picture of the Dead Sea. “Come with me.”

            “You want salt?” I said. “I’ll buy you a box of Morton’s.”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “I’d rather visit Australia.”

            “Be a pal. Think about it.”


            “I knew it wasn’t a cure,” my sister whispered from her hospice bed. “I just wanted to visit the Holy Land before I died.”  


            The water’s buoyancy made it fun for us to swim but I’ll always prefer the Hebrew name Yam HaMelach, Sea of Salt, to Dead Sea.

             I swim with her still.




“We have returned to the cisterns
To the market and to the market-place
A ram’s horn calls out on the Temple Mount
In the Old City.

And in the caves in the mountain
Thousands of suns shine -
We will once again descend to the Dead Sea
By way of Jericho! “

-from the song “Jerusalem of Gold.” 



A.K.A. Ted White

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