Written for OLWG #407. The three prompts
are shown below. This is my story.
Tag: Jewish
The Apartment: The Continuing Story of Harvey and Fiona
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged
to get creative in 250 words or less using the photo prompt
as inspiration. This is my 2nd story of Harvey and Fiona.
For another look at the 1st installment, click here.
Harvey and Fiona were as different as a gorilla and a swan but they had an undeniable chemistry and started falling in love. No one was more surprised than Fiona .… except her parents.
There was a major obstacle her parents couldn’t overlook – Harvey was Jewish. Fiona’s very Irish-Catholic father hated Harvey, calling him ‘Christ killer’ and ‘kike’. Her mother was crushed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can’t you see he’s no good for you? I don’t trust him, Fina girl!” she warned, crying into her apron. Fiona would not be dissuaded; with a heavy heart she closed the door of her childhood home behind her and never looked back.
Harvey and Fiona were married in city hall, the judge and his clerk their only guests and witnesses. After a weekend honeymoon in Niagara Falls, the couple settled into Harvey’s tiny apartment – a walk-up on the fifth floor with a depressing view of factories and government buildings.
Harvey worked the graveyard shift as a printer at the local newspaper, seven days a week from midnight till 8:00 AM. His fingernails were perpetually stained with black ink. The first morning he came home from work and saw the newly decorated apartment, he yelled furiously at Fiona for spending his money on unnecessary things. Uncaring, he left ink stains on the new bedspread when he sat down to remove his shoes.
Fiona cried silently in the kitchen. Harvey sidled up behind her, kissed a spot below her ear and she leaned into him.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Love With The Proper Stranger” by Jack Jones
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
TEA FOR THE TILLERMAN
Lighted gardenia-scented candles flickered throughout the Brevard Jewish Community Temple. I grew up in Brevard, North Carolina but moved to San Francisco at the age of 17 to “find myself“. After 20–plus years and still not certain who I truly was, I felt the time had come to revisit my hometown.
It all began after reading an article in the Transylvania County Times about BJCT which my dear friend Marsha sent me; a few of the lines truly resonated with me:
“It is good to enter into the spirit of the Sabbath, a time in which our personal concerns drop away for a few hours and we get a sense of the larger meaning of life and fellowship, one unconcerned with wealth or occupation or standing. That is what Shabbat can do – take us to a place of repose, equality, community and perhaps even peace of mind.”
After my catastrophic marriage, peace of mind sounded like an impossible quest. Once my decision to return to Brevard was made, I called Marsha; she met me at the airport and our first stop was the temple. Services were already in progress so we sat in the back listening to the tranquil beauty of the ancient Hebrew chants.
Hearing the cantor’s resonant voice I realized it was familiar to me. I opened my eyes to see who was singing but my view was obstructed by a woman’s enormous hat. “I know that voice.” Glancing down at my program I saw a name that made my heart pound: ‘Arthur Rosen’. So much time had gone by but his name still warmed my blood. ‘’The one that got away’’, as the saying goes, when in actuality he was the one I pushed away.
As the people were leaving the temple, Marsha and I stopped to chat with Arthur; I wondered if he sensed my heart and mind were racing. He was as handsome as I remembered – a little grayer and sporting a closely-cropped beard which added to his rugged charm. His blue eyes were still captivating, his smile warm and inviting. I couldn’t help noticing he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Lois Efron! You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you after all these years! If I may say, you look radiant!” Arthur exclaimed. Truly happy to see me, he clasped my hands in his.
No embraces, no awkward kiss on the cheek – just genuine pleasure in seeing me again.
“It’s wonderful to see you too, Arthur – an especially nice surprise.”
He asked me what I’d been doing all this time and laughed when I told him “I was on the road to find out.”
“Aren’t we all, Lois?” he asked. “Tell me; were you victorious?”
Now it was my time to laugh, saying “Oh, no! Not at all!”
“Well, then, you must persevere!” Arthur replied with an engaging smile.
We said our goodbyes and I realized we were still holding hands. I suddenly remembered those many nights we held hands listening to “Tea for the Tillerman”.
Marsha slid behind the wheel of her car and I casually asked “So, when were you going to tell me Arthur was still living here?”
“Would you have come if I did?” and I found I honestly didn’t know the answer. “Lois, before we go to lunch I’d like to show you something.”
As we rode through the downtown area I was shocked by how much it had changed since I left. It was now dynamic and vibrant with eclectic stores, charming restaurants and lively pubs. Marsha parked the car, walked to a store and unlocked the door.
“Wait a second. Is this YOUR store?” I asked.
“Founder and owner” Marsha replied proudly. “What? Don’t sound so surprised! Welcome to Theophilus – a little bit of everything for the discriminating client.”
We were no longer in Brevard; this was a taste of the exotic Middle East. Gorgeous Persian rugs adorned the floors, hookahs, statues, belly dancing skirts bedecked with crystals, finger cymbals, lanterns, perfumes, jewelry boxes, coffee, almonds, candied dates and so much more filled the store.
“Do you like it?” Marsha asked excitedly.
“It’s magical, Marsha. I love it!” I responded, looking around in amazement.
“And look” Marsha said, gently guiding me toward the front window. “See that blue house across the street? Arthur lives there … very much alone. I’m sure he’d warmly welcome your company.”
I smiled knowingly at my friend; she understood me like no one else.
Yes, I think I’d found my way home.
NAR © 2021
HORSE OF ANOTHER COLOR
“Eavesdropper, eh? Terrific odds. He’s a mudder and the track is muddy today. And look at his lineage! Yep, Millie, I predict that’s the winner of Race 9” said Harry Goldman to his wife.
She brushed him off with a wave of her hand. “Whatever, Harry Houdini. Not one of your famous magical predictions has paid off yet.”
“All right, Millie. I admit you got lucky today. What’s your secret …. communicating with a horse whisperer?”
“Oh, zip it, Harry! If it wasn’t for me, we’d be in the poor house. You haven’t won all day! Now be quiet and let me concentrate on my choice for this race.”
Harry heaved his portly body out of his seat. “Pardon moi, madame. I’m gonna place my bet on Eavesdropper. Then we’ll see who’s got horse sense!”
“You mean horse’s ass, don’t ya?” Millie cackled. “Go on. I’ll be along in a minute. I’m thinking here.” Snapping her chewing gum, Millie studied the racing form, then traipsed to the betting windows.
Bets placed, Harry and Millie settled in for the race. “I got a good feeling about this one, Millie!” Harry said excitedly.
The starting gun shot out and the announcer shouted “And they’re off!”
Eavesdropper took the lead immediately and held on. Anxious, Harry stood to watch. Suddenly the horse in fourth place started picking up steam. Faster and faster, he flew past the other horses and at the last second crossed the finish line just before Eavesdropper.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “What a shocker! The winner by a nose …. Muddy Waters!”
Harry slumped into his seat. “I don’t believe it! Eavesdropper was a shoe-in.”
Millie, however, was flying high. “I won again! Good old Muddy Waters. I knew it!”
“Millie, I’m begging you! “How’d you do it?”
“Harry, remember how you said the track was muddy today? When I saw the name ‘Muddy Waters’, I knew that was an sign.”
“But how did you pick ALL the other winners?”
“It’s the colors! If I like what the jockey’s wearing, I’ll pick that horse.”
“That’s your strategy? COLORS?!? Ok, who you picking for the last race?”
Millie looked around surreptitiously and pointed to a name on the card.
“HIM?? Rabelais? His color is ‘Eiffel Tower Brown’ – like a turd!”
“Not so loud, Harry! He’s from France and you know how ‘I fell’ for those Frenchies!”
“Aren’t you the clever one?” Harry groaned at Millie’s little joke. “I give up, Millie. Go with your cockamamie ideas and bet it all on Rabelais!”
Millie was already at the window before Harry was even finished talking.
NAR © 2018
The Elephant's Trunk 