Lineage ~ #fridayfictioneers ~ 1/31/14

claire-fuller-2Copyright -Claire Fuller



“Amy did you see this?” John tossed me the morning paper.

Stradivarius stolen from Milwaukee symphony concertmaster

“Hmmm. That’s terrible. I’m heading out to the shop”.

Grandfather Lipinski had taught me to shape curves, gently bending wood, balancing tone shave by shave releasing her glory. I made violins as he had. Like our ancestors before us. As he’d taught his apprentice Antonio to do in Cremona; Yet Gypsies we were called. And a Genius he was touted for centuries.

Opening Poppa’s ornately carved chest I withdrew my birthright. Lips caressing velvet varnish, my chin upon her rest “Welcome home”.

Word Count: 100


P.S. Please make sure to read the others.



This is one of those Friday Fictioneer moments. Where a photo sparks multiple directions. Some days I can barely write the one story and then on other days like today, my inspiration split, two come forth. When this happens I try and make an executive decision and cull the lot. Not today.

On my way into work this morning the news of the stolen Stradivarius came over the radio. I have an intimate connection with the violin which is a story for another time. But my obsession with the sound of the Strat is well known in my family. None would be surprised to hear I wished I’d stolen this masterpiece, the violin Ex-Lipinski. Just to play her for a moment (even horribly) would be incredible.

But when I first saw Claire’s photo my initial thought, actually memory, was of my first kiss, if you can call it that. It took place in 6th grade Woodshop. So of course I wrote that story. Which I am posting below for safe keeping.


Learning to Smoke

We’d cleaned our stations, sawdust swept, tools returned-my miniature rocking horse nearly complete. Upon the workbenches we awaited the class bell. Mr. Handly instructing “Sit still”. My BFF and I hurriedly gossiped.

Bobby and Frankie sat on the other side. As first steadies in sixth grade go we’d never actually gone anywhere. Everyone just knew, including us, that Bobby was MY boyfriend.

Little hairs perked upon my neck, Bobby tapping my shoulder. Mid-Giggle I turned. Thrust back suddenly he planted his kiss. Head hitting the vice I sprung up, flushed, sore, bell ringing and ran red-faced seeking solitude.