Friday Fictioneers 12/17/2021

The Mistress of Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle, has posted a photo prompt. I (we) must write a complete story in fewer than 101 words and post it here.

Click the prompt photo for teleportation to Rochelle’s blog where you can get all the rules and join the fun.

Here’s today’s picture and my micro-fiction story (titles and backstories do not count against the 100-word limit).

Click on the PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields to to to her blog page.

Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Dead Mollys
Word count: 100

They hung them Molly Maguires, Jimmy. That Pinkerton spy said they was murderers.

Jesus, Paddy. They was coal miners and union men, just like us, not Mollys. Pinkertons lie. It’s the coal barons, Paddy. They want us dead. One man was Ukrainian, not Irish, not even Catholic.

Augh, Jimmy. Then the whole feckin’ government’s paid off. What can we do?

All the power’s higher up. If we fight, we die. We got the numbers. We need to make unions work. Let’s talk to that John L. Lewis kid. He’s on our side.

Okay. But let’s fill these growlers. I’m thirsty.


Look both ways, even in the worst of times.
Mind the gaps and find your tribe.

***

Click on Sean Connery to see other stories or to link yours.

Backstories:

The Molly Maguires was an Irish (Catholic) secret society active in northeastern Pennsylvania (circa late 1800s), where I grew up. After a series of often violent conflicts, twenty suspected members of the Molly Maguires were convicted of murder and other crimes and were hanged.

John L. Lewis was president of the Mine Workers Union from 1920 to 1960.

The Molly Maguires is a 1970 historical drama movie (Richard Harris and Sean Connery) based on the 1964 book, Lament for the Molly Maguires by Arthur H. Lewis.

Poetry: Proudly Pissed


I wasn’t born in coal mines,
though I like to say I was—
I’ve never mined underground for coal,
yet it’s a deep soulful part of me.

It’s about heritage in my genes,
not just my father; grands as well,
going back hundreds of years,
to mines in Scotland, Wales, and Ireland.

Spoiled me. Never as tough, rugged, or ruthless
as they. No. Not descended
from fucking royalty, no dukes or counts.
Dirty, stinking, poor souls; a legacy
facing daily underground misery.

Piss-poor. Hard core. The Molly Maguires,
maybe for sure, perhaps not. I confess.
I’m tribal. My people: a joyless pride.


Look both ways and wonder.
What were they like? Who will they be?
Mind the gaps.
Turn the page.