Friday Fictioneers -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
The Violation of Sister Teresa
‘We have only one minute to reach the gates,’ whispered Angelina.
‘Take my hand,’ said Sister Theresa. ‘Am I too late?’
‘Please Sister.’ She took hold of her elbow. ‘Come on, the taxi is waiting.’
They shuffled along the path. ‘Please hurry.’
‘The little cherub is kicking.’ Theresa stopped and gasped long breaths.
‘Come on. Come on.’
The Taxi driver helped her into the car; they sped off.
Tears rolled down Angelina’s cheek.
The church doors opened.
‘You missed prayers!’ roared the Bishop. ‘My room now!’
No. I am not Sister Theresa.
She checked her chastity belt was locked.
Missing – a novel.
This is my first attempt at writing a full length–well 75000 words–novel.
The idea for the book came after attending family gatherings, mostly funerals, where my relatives where strangers. These people I knew existed but never met regularly, mostly never.
When I first started school at five years old, all of my relatives lived within a twenty-mile radius. On my father’s side they were farmers, on my mother’s side they worked in engineering.
I left school at sixteen and travelled, so I was the one who disappeared, and I suspect I am the stranger in the midst.
I recently met two of my relatives the same age as me, I remember starting school with them. I always thought they were my cousins, but discovered they were my father’s cousins. You can imagine there was a long discussion about who was who and an attempt at constructing a loose family tree.
Out of the discussion came the origins for my idea for the novel Missing. I pondered the thoughts of family bonds, trust, and misconceptions.
Missing–The story is of a young woman on the quest to find her parents and discover why as a child someone had placed her into care. No one would explain why.
She finds the house in the village where she was born and from there she traces and discovers her relatives. Her investigate disturbs them as she comes closer to the truth about the whereabouts of her parents.
I have passed the novel back to the proof-reader.
Well, I need a break from it.
Alibrasphere will publish the book at the end of April or early May.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio
Dorothy pulled her coat collar over her neck and shivered.
Why are they taking so long?
The body of Jeffrey MacDonald, missing for ten days, lay in the fox lair as she predicted.
She pointed into the thicket. ‘You can see his feet.’ She covered her nose with her scarf.
Dorothy was a police Psychic Consultant, who had found the burial locations of fifteen murdered victims.
‘Another Lawyer?’ said the Chief. ‘How many more before we stop this serial killer.’
‘There will be one more,’ said Dorothy.
Her husband, John, had suspected the killer’s name, and motive.
He was next.
We are advised to make good choices and live our life to the full, whatever that really means.
Perhaps, your final choice will be the hardest.
I feel privileged to learn my story “Falling Stars” has been published today by the good folks at Literally Stories.
The story was selected by Leila Allison as the Sunday read. (Thank you).
Leila Allison’s thoughts on ‘Falling Stars’.
You are invited to read the story and wonder if this is a great way to go – or not.
Posted in Blog, Observational, Short Story, Uncategorized
Tagged Dignitas, Life and Death., peace, Relationships, Romantic, Short Stories, spiritual, Writing
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers
The Lonely Musician
When he stopped playing her tune, she threw him out.
‘And take your Steinway,’ she yelled. ‘It clutters up the place.’
For forty years he played on the street corner.
To the delight of commuters who dropped coins into his hat.
He never asked for a penny.
He lived and dreamed for music and to charm happy smiles from weary faces.
The lonely musician crawled under the lid one day, and citizens kept his piano as a memorial.
The passing shoppers can still hear Debussy being played.
Every day, when his wife waters the flowers on the musician’s grave.
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Morgs are from Venus
The creature was here.
Malky dusted the frost from his Morg Detector.
The reading showed ten in a thousand parts of nitrogen dioxide
and traces of nitric oxide.
Malky locked his visor, sealed his suit and turned on its heater.
His knees began to shake.
He saw the frosted roses in a vase of water pellets.
What was the Morg after?
Was this a Valentine’s gift and attempt at amorous flattery?
Or a trap.
Were there frosted chocolates?
A lyrical voice called, ‘Malky’.
His detector bleeped nitric warning. Too late.
She was beautiful. He was frozen in love.
Posted in Blog, Friday Fictioneers, Uncategorized
Tagged Gedichte, Horror, Humour, Morgs from Venus, Relationships, ScFi, SciFi, Short Stories, Writing
Please Note: the novel will be available as an e-book at the end of March.
Missing –Read the first chapter – here.
When Laura was three years old, she was dragged away from her garden swing and taken into care. This experience created feelings, as she grew up, of being abandoned and unwanted by her mother.
As an adult, she contacts a librarian in the village where she was born for assistance in tracing her relatives. She ignores an anonymous warning to stay away.
In Russet House, she finds photographs of her mother, and from newspaper cuttings hidden in the attic she reads about a horrific event.
Laura is shocked by the tragedy and with the help of a retired detective is determined to solve the mystery. However, their investigation unsettles those close to Laura who advise her to let the past rest.
Laura had come to Kirkindale to find her mother, instead she discovered her identity was a lie.
I have completed thirty seven chapters of the book and I am on the third editing cycle. (Will I ever finish?). The book cover is also a draft.
Comments welcome – the good, the bad and the ugly – my skin is thicker than an elephant’s.
Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
I Knew You’d Wait
It was all or nothing Irene, that’s what you meant to me.
Ted left with you, driving down the boulevard speeding, they said.
Years later, I’m told he died in a shoot-out in a Las Vegas bar.
Served my time; ten years for robbery.
I heard, Ted dumped you out in the woods.
Damn, you’ve aged, lost your mojo by the looks of it.
I’ve dreamt of this day, my heart weeps, I want to scream at the sight of you.
You’re beautiful, I love you. Is our secret safe?
Under those panels, I stashed ten million dollars.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Short Story, Uncategorized
Tagged Crime, Flash Fiction, Gangster, Redemption, Relationships, Short Stories, Writing
Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Dale’s Broken Door.
‘You expect me to walk the dog and wash up – again!’
She slammed the door on the way out.
What did I say?
‘Weight watchers?’ I shouted after her.
It’s true, always another class.
Jogging or swimming, gossiping. I’ve married a fat ghost.
I expect she’ll stay with friends tonight. Moody!
Sorry dear, the meeting ran late, the boss insisted on a couple of drinks.
‘There is always next month you know.’
She didn’t like that.
“Look – tonight,” she pointed at the calendar.
We’ve been trying, but this organised sex is so stressful.
Honestly, I’m not ready for children.
Photo courtesy of Priya Bajpal
Each morning I walk along the beach and find a shell, just one, like you did. I wash off the sand and place it with the others, counting the days, I miss you.
I write a message on different coloured paper for every day of the week.
When I lie in my bed, I can hear you unfolding the notes and reading. Yes, I need you to understand how much I miss you, love you and care.
No one knows where you are, or what happened. We do.
When I am ready, I’ll walk along the beach and join you.