This print, along with many others, can now be purchased at my ETSY!
Category Archives: photos of strangers
Pollution in the Valley
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers, Typography
Tagged art, city, civilization, found art, life, mankind, photograph, photography, pollution, society, typography, valley
The Cliff’s Edge
A found photograph with a dark, possibly evil story typed on it with my Brother Charger 11.
This and many other prints can be purchased now at my ETSY! Check it out!
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers, Typography
Tagged Alfred Hitchcock, art, couples, dark, Edward Gorey, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photo, friendship, life, love, murder, noir, photograph, photography, romance, Tim Burton, typography, writing
A Sporadic Trip Around the World
“I want to take a trip around the world.”
Illana looked up at Maura to gauge the sincerity of her comment. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Now.”
Illana left her homework and walked over to the bed where Maura lay on her stomach ignoring the text she was assigned.
“You’re one-hundred percent sure?” Maura nodded. “Then get dressed.”
As Maura put on her favorite tee shirt they’d bought because they thought the image looked like Joan Crawford, Illana pulled out an old plaid suitcase, a treasure found at an estate sale a few months back. She opened it and began placing random clothing into it as her friend pulled a skirt up over her black leggings. Once assembled, Maura stepped up to the suitcase, motioning to Illana that it was her turn to get ready.
Pulling out a pair of flower-print shorts and holding them up to a mirror against her leggings, Illana remembered something important and said, “Don’t forget Marilyn. And Old Yellow.” Maura nodded in agreement and grabbed the large framed photograph and a beat up toy car, stuffing them into the vintage case with the clothing.
Illana joined her by the suitcase and they each took a clamp and shut it.
“Let’s go,” Maura said, Illana grabbing the suitcase and following close behind.
***
Illana and Maura waited alongside Paddua Road, a desolate and unused trucking road that ended at a collapsed bridge about three miles towards the mountains. They watched, waiting for an unlikely vehicle.
“I want to see Paris,” Illana said as she propped up the photograph against the suitcase and plopped down in the grass next to the asphalt.
“So generic,” Maura responded. “But yes, we must. And Madrid.”
“Rome.”
“Prague.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
Maura shielded her eyes from the sun, looking down the empty road. “Nobody’s coming. I want to change my shirt.”
“So change it. There isn’t a house for miles.”
Maura removed the Joan Crawford-like shirt and replaced it with a gray tee,
pulling the long sleeves up to her elbows. She looked down the road again, then started slowly crossing it towards the open field across from them. Illana laid down in the middle of the road and watched her go for a moment before getting up, and grabbing their belongings and heading for the same field.
She joined Maura, who was now sitting amongst the grass and dandelion wishes. Illana plucked one of the nearby flowers and blew on it so that parachutes fluttered in the air, putting on a private dance just for the two teenagers.
“Think we’ll ever actually see the world?”
“Of course we will. Don’t be silly. As soon as we’re eighteen. Summer after we graduate. It’ll happen.”
Maura reached over to the suitcase and opened it, removing the small beat up vehicle they’d found while exploring an abandoned home last summer. She ran her fingers across the writing on the door that said “Kreuzer – Ball Pen Stylo” and then spun one of the wheels. She looked over at Illana, who was laying on her back with her feet in the air. She gently balanced the toy onto Illana’s feet.
“See how long you can keep it there.”
After a few minutes of a quiet breeze and perfect balance, Maura reached over and tickled Illana, making the car roll off her feet and into a particularly large pack of the white dandelions. The car disturbed enough of the flowers to break a large amount of them, and the wind picked up the petals and blew them towards the girls, making a summer snowfall of wishes surround them.
“Make a wish,” Illana told Maura.
“I already did.”
Maura got up and picked up the suitcase.
“Let’s go home.”
Photographs by Laura and Manon of Nonsense of the Truth
Please stop by their AMAZING blog and check out how talented they are!
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged art, Belgium, best friends, fiction, flash fiction, friendship, hipster, life, love, marilyn monroe, nonsense of the truth, nonsenseofthetruth, photo, photography, teenagers, teens, world travel
The Final Moment
They paused and posed for a quick photograph…
…unaware it would be their last.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers, Typography
Tagged accident, death, down, life, photo, photography, sad, typography
Sweet Sixteen (1964)
This and many other original prints (including my stories) are for sale HERE.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged 1960s, art, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photography, husband, life, love, marriage, party, photography, photos, punch bowl, romance, sweet sixteen, wife
A Faded Memory
This and many other prints I’ve worked with are now for sale at my ETSY! Come on by and check them out!
As his memory faded, our grandfather only seemed able to remember the good old days of his childhood.
(maybe it is better that way)
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged age, aged, alzheimer's, art, creative, faded memory, family, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photography, grandfather, life, love, memory, old age, photography, photos, poem, poetry, vintage, worn
A Simple Piece of Paper
He woke up that morning and knew, just inexplicably knew he was supposed to get into his car and drive. So he threw a dirty pair of jeans on over his boxers, an old orange t-shirt, and got into his cherry red Camaro.
He turned the key, revved the engine, and then pulled out, no clue where he was going. How would he decide? Would the car know? Would fate just guide him? He pulled the car out and a sudden honk made him jump, a passing car with a driver waving a fist at him as it passed. He would have to be a bit more careful.
He pulled off of his street, and knew there was nothing in this small Pennsylvania town that would draw him out with such mystery and magic, so he headed right for the interstate, somehow fully aware that he had a long way to go, even though he had no real destination. It was only a few minutes before he was driving on the highway, accompanied by only one other car, a blue Ford truck, about a mile ahead of him. He drove until even the Ford was gone, and he was alone on the highway, not an oddity for this area at this time of day. The sun had only been up for moments, and after all, it was a Sunday, most people were still asleep. He looked up at the sun, wondering when the last time it was that he woke up this early any day of the week let alone a Sunday.
He saw an exit coming up, an unmarked one he’d never noticed before, and decided to turn off the interstate, this particular road made of dirt and pebbles, probably a truck exit or something, he figured. The sun almost disappeared, the trees were so thick here, and as he continued down the road, if it could even be called that, he was jostled all over the front seat due to its giant potholes and general unevenness. Something darted out in front of the car, a white blur, and so he slammed on the brakes.
Peeking over the dashboard, he turned off the radio, trying to see what it was that he’d quite possibly killed. Seeing nothing, he got out and walked around to the front. Lodged under the front tired was a large piece of paper, a map, most likely, so he got back in, backed the Camaro up a bit, then had to jump out and retrieve the paper as the wind took it again.
He chased it into the woods a bit, finally catching up with it as it was momentarily caught by a tree branch, snatching it up quickly before the wind could take it again. He gently opened it, since it seemed old, and realized it was covered in writing.
As he read it, he became overwhelmed, spellbound, excited. He could feel the world spinning, actually sense the movement under him, and he could see and hear every leaf in the woods move, every single little motion, he could hear the thoughts of a nearby bird searching out food for her babies, she seemed so scattered in her thoughts. He suddenly knew, without a doubt, that down the road was a cabin where a family was just getting up to the smell of bacon and eggs, and farther than that a deer was eating a sapling, and a bit down from that a river ran where a bear was trying to catch a fish, and he was even fully aware that today, that bear would not catch that fish, and the fish would go on to have many children, but that the bear would not.
He couldn’t even fully understand what it was that he was reading, but he could see himself, fifty years down the road, a grandson on his lap, his wife, whom he recognized as a neighbor of his, cooking in the kitchen as his family, and some of hers, prepared for some sort of celebration. He saw beyond that, wars, famines, tragedies, all in the future, he saw planes fall, men walking on Mars, tidal waves, love, he saw everything that would ever happen, understood it all, and suddenly realized what was happening. He continued to read, and the longer he read, the more of the world he saw, and he wanted to stop but could not, he wanted to know it all before this moment went away, before whatever was happening stopped, he had to know. He saw cities grow and change, buildings stretch higher, airplanes bigger, cars smaller, flying machines, floating buildings, crime, weapons beyond anything he ever knew could exist, and then, all of a sudden, he saw nothing.
He startled back to the woods at a nearby sound, and noticed a deer crashing through the woods, the same deer he’d seen eating only a moment, or maybe it was a day, a week, a month ago, he couldn’t tell. He looked around, remembered where he was, when he was, and headed back to the car. As he climbed back in, he suddenly remembered the paper in his hand, held it up in the air, and just let it go. The wind took it off in an instant, and he watched as it floated up into the air, back down, and then into the woods and out of his sight.
Posted in photos of strangers
Tagged 1970s, bear, cabin, Camaro, deer, fate, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, future, hunch, inspiration, kairos, knowledge, photography, science fiction, woods
Hank’s Troubles
This story is based on a real postcard I found from 1949. Make sure you read the actual postcard at the end of the story! Enjoy!
Maxienne was cooking frantically in the kitchen, trying to watch all four burners at once, stirring, ladling, adding ingredients, chopping others, all with little Charlie crawling around her feet. She tripped over him on the way to the counter to chop more onions.
“Really Charlie, I cannot wait until you’re napping again. Tu est un menace! At least your little sister sleeps during the day here and there,” she exclaimed in her heavy French accent.
Once chopped, Maxienne rushed back towards the frying pan, slipped on some sort of wet spot on the floor, regained her balance, and dropped all but three pieces of onion into the pan, the rest falling towards the floor. Charlie looked up at the sound of the loud sizzle as they heated. He smiled and started looking for whatever fell.
And at that, Charlie’s little sister, Mariette, started squealing from her crib, apparently awake from her nap. Maxienne wiped her brow with a nearby towel, sweating from the heat of a New York City August.
“Hank? HANK? Mon dieu! Could you please help in here, s’il vous plait?” She waited, hearing no response. “Hank?” She turned the burner under the pan down and ran into one of the five rooms in their new apartment, looked around, and realized the room was empty.
“Ah! This place is too big!” She ran to the next room and picked Mariette up, running back towards the kitchen, causing her to sweat even more. As she ran by the closed door she said, “Merci, Hank. Thank you for all of the help!” Not waiting for a response she headed right for the kitchen, where the pot full of sauce had started to boil over and splatter onto the kitchen wall.
“Damn!” She said, lunging for the knob on the oven. Mariette squirmed in her hands, wanting to get down. “Fine, you want down? You can go down!” She rushed the three feet to their living room and put Mariette on the couch, surrounding her with pillows. At this, Charlie started crying. “What now?”
Maxienne turned in time to see the onions were starting to burn, and quickly pulled the pan off the stove, a little oil jumping from the pan and onto her hand. “MERDE!” she yelled. Meanwhile, Charlie was still wailing as if in pain, so she lowered the sauce and ran to him, swiping him up in one fluid motion, spinning right back to the stove where she quickly stirred the pasta so it wouldn’t stick. Then, her attention turned to Charlie, she tried to investigate why he’d suddenly started crying.
Something was lodged in his mouth, and as she fished it out, he bit her. “Damn!” she yelled. “Hank! Would you PLEASE come in here? Get out here and help!” Still no answer, she went back into his mouth, fishing out one of the chunks of onion. “That’s it, Charlie? That? It’s onion…it won’t kill you.”
Charlie, relieved to have the taste removed from his mouth, still frowned at her. “Perhaps some milk,” she said, heading for the refrigerator. She reached above it first, pulling down a package of French cigarettes, and quickly popped the package so one jumped into her mouth. She pulled a glass and the bottle of milk out like someone who had done it a thousand times, and he had a sip of milk before she’d even put him back on the floor. Charlie calmed, she leaned into the burner and lit the cigarette, the beads of sweat on her face reflecting the fire. She turned her attention back to the stove, stirred the sauce, noticing it was a bit thick. “Merde!” she said to herself. “Hank! I think I burned the sauce!” She tasted it. “I think I can save it,” she yelled again. Still no response.
Maxienne checked the pasta, scooping a piece out on a wooden spoon and picking it up carefully between her freshly painted nails, and threw it against the wall. It stuck for a second before falling off. A few more minutes, she decided.
At that, a knock came at the door. “Hank! I do not suppose you could get that?” She waited, expecting to hear the door of the bathroom open, but still nothing. “Ah!” she growled to herself in anger, quickly drying her hands on the towel hanging from her apron. She checked the onions, quickly threw the meatballs into the pan, jumped back from the sparks of oil that spurted from the pan, and ran towards the door, drying her hands yet again while watching the future meal over her shoulder.
She opened the door to find Pete, their door man. “Hey there, Mrs. J! Got your mail! Sure smells good in there! What are you making, meatballs? Gravy smells great too!”
“Would you like one, Pete? They’ll still be a few minutes at least…”
“No no, ma’am. Thanks all the same though. Let me grab these too for you!” He picked up the empty milk bottles from the floor by the door. “Can I help you with anything else?”
“Can you get my husband to give me a hand?” she asked with a sly smile.
He laughed. “No can do, ma’am. But if there’s anything else, let me know!”
“Merci, thanks Pete! Maybe I’ll send some down for you when it’s done?”
“Thanks!” he said as he walked away. She shut the door and ran back to the kitchen. Flipped the meatballs. Stirred the sauce. Checked the pasta. It was done, so she grabbed the potholders and emptied the hot water into the sink, watching some ashes fall from her cigarette into the pile of noodles. She put down the pot, took out the ashen noodles, and threw them in the garbage. Then she took a moment to tap her cigarette into a nearby ashtray on the kitchen table and wipe her brow of sweat yet again.
She put the sauce on low in time to notice the kids were quiet, checked on them, and found them asleep in the living room. She sighed, relaxed for the first time all day, and dropped the meatballs one by one into the pot of sauce. She put the lid on, dropped the pots into the sink, and sat at the table.
“Hank?”
“Hank?”
She pulled out a small box of post cards and the suitcase typewriter Hank had bought her for her last birthday and took the lid off. Carefully putting the postcard under the plastic holder, she tapped her cigarette ashes into the tray again.
“Dinner will be ready in a few, if you’re hungry,” she yelled to Hank once more. “I’m going to write a postcard to Lil.” Still no answer.
She relaxed a bit more, sighed, and started typing.
Posted in photos of strangers
Tagged 1940s, 1949, apartment, children, cooking, fiction, flash fiction, found, found art, French, kitsch, love, married life, meatballs, New York City, postcard, spaghetti, women
Spring Break (A Fictional Story)
We’d just spent the whole day together, the four of us, me and Jimmy, Fern and Able, an entire day. I remember it was warm, too warm for Spring, Easter around the corner, things were simpler then, when we still anxiously awaited the Easter Bunny, wondering what goodies we would find in our baskets. No school for a few days. The long trek to Scranton to see the relatives we only saw twice a year, once for a huge Easter brunch and their yearly summer visit in Sea Isle City.
The creek had been especially cold still, too cold really to put our feet in, but we did so anyway. I shivered a bit, and Jimmy pointed out the goose pimples on my arms. He started trying to warm them, and they only grew worse, not from the cold but from his touch. I turned a bright red, which Able pointed out, and I just tried to explain away as part of the unusual heat.
We headed over to the swinging rope from there, the boys daring each other to swing farther out over the creek, then taking turns attempting other dares, trying to outdo each other for the sake of our affection. It wasn’t until the rope started to break that they stopped, and Jimmy won, of course.
Fern and I sat and chatted while the boys played with a frog they found, listening to us giggle from afar. They pushed each other a bit, back and forth, but playfully. They weren’t fighting over us, everyone knew Able had a thing for Fern, and Jimmy, well Jimmy had already told me he was going to ask me to marry him one day.
It was Fern who pointed out the sun, guessing it was probably almost supper time when we started hearing all of the neighborhood moms yelling out children’s names, so we started the long hike back through the woods. Birds sang, the boys hit saplings with walking sticks they found, and we just followed.
We emerged from behind old Mr. Sampson’s back yard, careful not to be seen since he was a notorious kid hater, and was known to call parents when kids cut through his yard. But we didn’t care, it was a perfect day and we practically dared him to call our homes as we strolled through.
It was after we got to the street that Jimmy slowed down, allowing me to catch up, telling Fern that Able wanted to ask her something so that she would run ahead a bit. He took my hand in his for the first time, and an excited chill ran through my body to my heart. I smiled a crooked smile, trying to act normal and keep from him how he made me feel, and as Fern turned around, smiled, and waved her goodbye to me, I wiggled my free fingers at her in return and Jimmy walked me home, holding my hand all the way.
Posted in photos of strangers
Tagged 1950s, 1960s, children, creek, easter, found art, found photo, freedom, friends, kitsch, life, love, photography, retro, school's closed, spring break, vintage
The Letter
She always dreaded that the day would come. He had been serving in the army for a second tour of duty, and she would often have nightmares of that fateful moment. The men would come, dressed in their uniforms, and solemnly approach her home with that letter, the typed, impersonal apology from the United States government.
It had happened to Ethyl down the street, and she spent days there, consoling her, bringing casserole after casserole, returning home with the emptied dish every night with the knowledge that she would just have to fill it up again tomorrow, a shared sympathy. After all, it could just as easily be Ethyl bringing the casseroles to her.
And then one evening, she was sitting watching the television when she heard a car coming down the street and just knew. She got up, still dressed from her long day of shopping with Ethyl, attempting to keep her mind off of her loss, and she could see the car slowly driving down the street. She watched from the window, lights off, praying that the car would just pass her house.
It pulled into her driveway, a long, black Buick, and the headlights illumined the space around her, through the window. For some reason she grabbed her purse, an afterthought, or perhaps something to hold onto when the news came. She watched as two older men in uniform got out of the car and straightened their shirts, double-checking for perfection. Then one reached into his pocket and withdrew the envelope.
For a brief moment, she felt a breath on the back of her neck, and she turned and saw her husband there. The men approached her stoop.
She reached out to touch him, and he smiled, just for a moment. The men were at the door now.
His smile disappeared, and he nodded knowingly, reassuringly, and she knew what he was trying to tell her. The men knocked.
She looked down at the carpet, freshly vacuumed, felt the gentle caress of his hand at the small of her back, and when she looked up he was gone.
A Flash of Inspiration 