Tag Archives: found art

Want to Help With My Book?

Okay here’s your chance, readers! I’ve been writing flash fiction and typing it onto photos for over a year now, and guess what! A publisher wants to collect a bunch of them into a book! So here’s how you can get involved.

I have a pile of new photographs, and I’m coming up with a few flashes for each one. I will be posting a few of them and letting YOU decide which story you think best fits the photograph. Not enough? You can also always suggest I start over!

So here’s today’s photograph:

And here are the flashes to choose from:

1. Maude always hoped she would leave town someday.

2. The road out of town…

3. The first day of the rest of her life.

So readers, please choose which you want and comment! Thanks!

Dennis.

The Boy in Fenway Park, 1947

Margaret and Isabel were both quickly sketching the scene as the boy stood at the bridge staring at his reflection.

“Looks like we figured out what our drawings were missing, huh Madge?”

Margaret agreed. The water churned a bit, making her wonder what the boy was really doing since the current was making reflections difficult.

“Ready for our lunch?” Margaret asked her. She nodded and pulled the wicker picnic basket over to their little folding stools. “Mind if I look at yours while you get lunch together?”

Belle was always agreeable and nodded as she pulled out the ham and cheese sandwiches, potato salad and some fruit. The final item, a jar of pickles, proved difficult. She strained against the lid as Margaret flipped through her rough sketches.

“These are beautiful, Belle. I still don’t know why you didn’t finish art school with me.”

She gave up on the jar and handed it to Margaret, who easily opened it. “Musta loosened it for me, doll.”

Belle took the jar back and pulled out a pickle. “You know I loved Mitch. He found a job so fast and wanted to get married and all, I couldn’t say no. And who says I can’t create art without that piece of paper? An artist doesn’t need it, necessarily. Did Van Gogh have a degree? Did Rembrandt?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Did they?”

“You’re the one who finished art school, you tell me!” Belle said with a laugh as she took a large bite of the pickle she’d been holding. “Now let me see yours, then we’ll dig into these sandwiches!”

Margaret handed over the sketchpad. “Now don’t go getting pickle juice on them!” A quick wipe of her hands on her long pleated skirt took care of the juice and she flipped through.

“These are just beautiful, Madge. A bit dark for a nice day, but lovely. Will you paint them?” Margaret nodded. “Watercolors?”

“No, I think oils, you know how I love to paint in oils.”

“Think the boys are having fun at the game?”

“Only if the Red Sox are winning, darling. Otherwise we’re going to have two grumpy gusses on the ride home.” The women giggled and ate their lunches. They both looked up at the boy, who was still standing on the wooden bridge.

“What do you think he’s doing?”

“Why looking at his reflection, silly!” Belle said.

“But look at the water, no way he could see his reflection! I’ve seen that look on a man before. That boy is deep in thought about something.”

“Probably a lovely girl he wants to ask out,” Belle said with a smile.

Margaret shook her head in disagreement. “I dunno…he doesn’t seem to happy to me.”

“Really? He seems downright amiable to me. Isn’t it funny how artists see things so differently, even from one another?” She smiled and pulled an apple out of the basket. “Apple or banana? We have one of each.”

“Apple, dear. Bananas are always bruising, and I can’t stand that.”

Belle handed her the apple and started peeling the banana back. “A few little bruises never hurt anyone, I’m fine with this banana.”

At that a loud crack could be heard coming from the ballpark, and the women turned to look in its direction. Cheering could be heard from the crowd, even from where the two artists were sitting.

“Sounds like a home run.”

“The boys will be happy then, hopefully.”

“Yes,” Margaret said as she picked up her sketchbook. She stared at the dark charcoal sketches she did of the boy.

“Well I’ll be, our subject!” Belle said, forcing Margaret to look up.

The boy had gone.

Vantage Point

Terese stood looking up at the perfect blue sky and fluffy clouds before she gathered the nerve to go to the edge and look down on everyone. The building wasn’t that high, and while she could appreciate an amazing view of the city, her fear of heights tended to take over. But she wanted to, so she forced herself, inch by inch, her high heels scraping the cement with each half-step, toward the wall that overlooked the courtyard below.

Ole had been difficult all day; as a matter of fact, he hadn’t been fun to travel with at all. His constant complaints were annoying, his mood swings obnoxious, and his hatred of people in general was exhausting. She practically had to drag him onto the metro and to the different sights. If she left it up to him they would stay in the hotel most of this trip, and he wouldn’t even be trying to have sex with her. He was more likely to watch television.

Terese shook her hands a bit, then her head, her black hair flinging until she stopped and it was frazzled, a strand or two sticking to her lipstick. She wanted to forget the frustration of her relationship and think about the view, attempt to check out Oslo with a positive mind instead of one focused on her problems. She boldly stepped to the edge and looked below to see people milling around. She sighed and enjoyed a pleasant moment, her first one on the trip thus far. She felt the stress wash away as she listened to the water lapping against the man-made walls, noticed two lovers sitting by the water having a moment, and was instantly refreshed.

Until she noticed Ole.

There he was, angrily brushing his jacket off as if the metro got it dirty. Her moment of happiness fell apart and her shoulders began to ache the tiniest bit. He then started brushing off a cement wall, preparing it for his royal ass. He’s the royal ass she thought to herself, then giggled a little. She tried to enjoy the view of the waterfront but her eyes kept resting back on Ole, who checked his watch a dozen times in the few moments she was up there.

She walked across to another view, one where she would not see her annoying lover. The sun was beginning to set and cast a shadow across the area, shadowing her in darkness for a brief moment. If Ole looked up he would have noticed her silhouette from below, but he just sat on the wall wondering how long she would be up there.

She looked around at the walkway where she stood and realized she was alone. She returned to a vantage point near the edge, one where she could see Ole again. Her hand slipped out of her pocket and shaped itself into a gun. She pointed it in his general direction, pretended to look through the sights, aimed and fired.

Photographs by the talented Kristin Brænne, whose work can be seen HERE.

Meeting God (if There is One)

I walked into the abandoned building on a routine assignment for photography class and halted, my chucks pushing a small pile of old candy wrappers and beer cans. I’d never seen anything like this place. Perhaps once, when I was in Notre Dame Cathedral when someone had left a window open and the sun shone through it in just the right way. But this was different.

That day in Paris, even though I didn’t believe in God, I couldn’t help but feel like He was trying to send me some sort of message. But that was in a church and it was nowhere near as beautiful as this antiquated, unused building that witnessed the ravages of time and disuse.

Yes, I was surrounded by garbage, an overflowing dumpster and all kinds of junk. The building was collapsing, and I hadn’t been charged a certain number of Euros or queued in an hour-long line to get in. The bright light wasn’t pouring in through a stained glass window that was in itself a work of art; here it spilled in via the surrendered ceiling in an abandoned building that probably should have been condemned years ago.

Part of the roof hung down by a girder. A breeze made it swing slightly and a creaking sound emitted from it, echoing off the emptiness. Rain had rusted the metal bars on the windows and the reddish-brown color spilled down the whitewashed walls of the what was probably an old warehouse. This was no Notre Dame, and yet it was more beautiful to me than anything I had ever witnessed before.

I snapped off a few shots and looked at the camera’s screen. The rays of sun bounced off the dusty air to create the illusion of substance. The light, so bright, washed out the image just a bit and created that feeling I had in my gut that, if there was a God, He was right there with me. Even the trash looked beautiful as it was washed with the bright illumination of our planet’s lightgiver.

I snapped off a few more shots and then the room dimmed a bit as a cluster of clouds must have passed overhead. My sigh reverberated through the room, hiding the creaking of the dangling ceiling, and as I walked out the echoed shuffling of my chucks followed.

Top photograph by Manon, whose blog can be found here.

Notre Dame photograph by me.

Waiting

She stood there, waiting, and she wasn’t even sure what for. One foot on the grill, one on the solid sidewalk, she watched people walk by. Not too many for that time of day. An oddity. She wondered where everyone was, where the few stragglers were going, what they were doing, what their futures held. An old cab drove by, an aged, antique model that she’d never seen in real life, only in the movies. The checkers on the side, bright yellow dimmed by time, the driver maybe even older than the car itself. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and for a second she felt as if she could see into his soul, his whole life of pain, torment, wars, soldiers, Nazis, pain, suffering, but also the love of a good woman, meeting her on leave, bringing her flowers, dates, love, family, children, grandchildren, one great-grandson and as quickly as he drove by and he broke eye contact the moment and the visions were gone. She tugged at the black sleeve of her cardigan and scraped the cement with her left boot tip, looked down into the grill and saw trash accumulated in the underground sewer. When she looked back up she was once again curiously alone on the street.

Photograph of Manon by the amazing Laura of Instant Flowers and Nonsense of the Truth. They are quite talented, please check out their work. They inspire me often.

Goats Can Be Heroic, Too

“This is the part of the zoo where you can feed the animals,” mom told us as we walked to the cage. “Only feed them these pellets. Dennis, are you listening?”

My older brother had that smile at just the edges of his mouth, the one that meant trouble. Mom put a hand on each of his shoulders in an attempt to grab his attention. “Did you hear me?” His fake smile appeared and she fell for it. Again.

I was the good one. My brother was always causing my parents trouble, and I hated seeing my mom cry over his ridiculous antics. He always came home with unexplained bruises and cuts, or being chased by older, faster kids. My mom automatically defended him against upset neighbors, teachers, and officers. So I always tried to keep my nose clean. It just seemed fair. She worked so hard around the house, and my dad was always on emergency calls, being the town doctor.

After doling out half of the little pellets she got out of the penny machine to feed animals, she sat down on a nearby bench. It wasn’t even two seconds before Dennis ran out of the pellets, which of course he was throwing at a duck that was more interested in dodging them than eating them, before he came and wrenched my wrist to steal mine. Luckily I knew him well enough to expect this and had pocketed a few as soon as my mom handed them out.

“Hey!” was all I said. I turned to my mother, who heard my cry and looked up, so I just smiled and waved. It just wasn’t worth getting her upset. I turned my attention back to Dennis, who was easy to spot in the crowd considering he was wearing the same red and white-striped shirt as me. I carefully followed behind (he’d caught me following him once and I could still feel phantom bruises from that lesson) and watched as he pelted a little lamb with the rest of the food before he came upon the goat.

He approached the fence where this huge billy goat stood almost eye to eye with Dennis (if memory serves it had a few inches on him, but you know how memories become distorted) and Dennis instantly reached his hand through the large spaces between the wire and yanked the creature’s beard, pulling it closer. I could see from my vantage point that the goat’s eyes widened. I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to be pulling the animal’s fur. Dennis looked around for something to feed it but only discovered the lid to an aluminum can someone had thoughtlessly discarded from a packed lunch.

“Eat it!” Dennis said to the goat, who kept moving its mouth away from the garbage. “Come on! Goats eat trash, I know it. Eat the can!”

I’d watched Dennis bully people my whole life, including myself, and I couldn’t stand it. Even the boys bigger than him always took the worst of it in a fight. What chance did this goat have?

The goat opened its mouth to make a noise and Dennis’ quick reflexes had the lid in the poor creature’s mouth before a sound came out. The sides of the lid were sharp and may have cut the goat, I have no clue, but it made a screaming sound, lunged at Dennis’ hand and grabbed it between its teeth. Dennis screamed out “Mommy!” and of course she came running. I tried not to laugh when I realized my brother was crying, actually crying, and when my mom ran up and looked at his hand, she saw teeth marks.

“Oh Dennis, come on. Look at your hand! It didn’t even break the skin.”

He was sniffling and snot started running down his face. I never thought I’d see the day that anyone or anything would get the best of my older brother, the terror of our neighborhood.

“Billy,” my mother called to me. “We’re going to sit on the bench. Come find us when you’re ready to go.”

I nodded and reached into my pocket, pulling out the few pellets I’d saved from my brother. The goat backed away, but I used my best soothing voice and said “Come here, boy.” The goat approached and I reached my hand through the fence with the pellets in my hand and fed my new hero.

The Road Not Taken (By the Undead)

The Road Not Taken (By the Undead)

By Robert Frost and Dennis Finocchiaro

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, zombies on my trail,
And sorry I could not travel both not knowing which was safe,
And be one traveler, long I stood worried I would fail,
And looked down one as far as I could looking for detail
To where it bent in the undergrowth; I must avoid the zombie strafe.

Then took the other, as just as fair, because I had to choose,
And having perhaps the better claim, of safety and deliverance,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; no mark of dragging feet or shoes,
Though as for that the passing there seemed safe as I could muse,
Had worn them really about the same, I hoped I had a chance.

And both that morning equally lay two bodies long decaying,
In leaves no step had trodden black. But trails of blood there lay,
Oh, I kept the first for another day! In hope there’d be no slaying,
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I found one creature buffeting,
I doubted if I should ever come back, to try the other way.

I shall be telling this with a sigh that my knife did seep into it’s brain,
Somewhere ages and ages hence: it’s former soul did feel my blade,
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— much in vain,
I took the one less traveled by, and a zombie I have slain,
And that has made all the difference in this, my long crusade.

The Z Word, my first published novel is available now here.  Make sure you like it on facebook by clicking HERE. Feel free to come by and post any zombie poetry you write on our page!

And yes, I know I’m going to literary hell for what I have done to this classic poem. It’s all in good fun.

The Photogophobic Photographer


He was uncomfortable in front of the camera, which was probably a major factor behind becoming a photographer in the first place. His shyness always clamped his mouth shut whenever someone told him to “say cheese.” For that reason, he hadn’t been captured on film in years. Besides that time he was fiddling with a camera that had a stuck shutter and he accidentally took one of himself, which he burned immediately upon developing the rest of the roll in his small water closet-turned-darkroom.

And now he was dating a fellow photographer. For the first time.

He always found himself with artists or models. Confident women who not only wanted to pose for him, demanded it. And, of course, as per his demeanor, he always complied. Whether he wanted to or not.

His timidity led to a cabinet full of photographs of all kinds of women. Most he’d never seen again, but some he’d come to recognize on the big screen in theaters, in advertisements and posters, even in the press. He sometimes wondered if they remembered him taking the photographs, many of which were nudes. Although taking off her clothing was never his idea. The more confidence a woman had, the sooner she would ask him to take nudes. And his work, well, it spoke for itself. Numerous shows in some of the biggest galleries in London, full page photographs in famous magazines, he had become rather well known for his work.

But now, this girl, all she wanted was a photograph of him. He didn’t know how to avoid it much longer. She adored him from the start; he could see it in her eyes after five minutes of conversation in which he’d probably said a total of fifteen words.

The two of them were loading film before heading out into Paris, ready to photograph La Ville-Lumière, the city of lights, on their first visit to the beautiful and historical city. They were dressed to kill, her in a beautiful black dress and the beret she bought along the Seine that morning, him in a button-down shirt and his favorite brown tie with little green and orange designs. He sat on the uncomfortable hotel room couch with ugly floral print and pulled back the heavy curtain to let in more light.

Something was wrong with his Pentax and the shutter was sticking (again) so he fiddled with it as she loaded film into her Anscoflex II. She giggled and curiosity got the better of him as he looked up and heard the click.

She smiled. “I knew I’d get you eventually. Quite a candid I just captured.” She flashed him her winning smile.

He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t angry. And after a while, he had to admit he was anxious to see how it turned out.

Birdwatching on Bicycles in Bilborough

“Let the first trip of the Birds and Bicycles Club begin!” announced Randolph Harrison Thursby to his companions. They all clapped lightly yet with enthusiasm as one of them took a photograph to capture the moment. Rand bowed and waved a hand as the small group of seven mounted their rides and stood, waiting for him to climb aboard his 1955 Regency De Luxe Tourist, his pride and joy.

“Binoculars at the ready?” asked Ruby Merriweather, his best friend since they were children, equaling over twenty years of friendship. Many of her boyfriends over the years were a bit jealous of their relationship; so jealous, in fact that she had yet to marry.

The other members of the group nodded or grumbled accordingly, eager to move on.

Rand jumped to the pedals and gave a slight push forward, the strap of his binoculars across his chest, the binoculars bumping into his back lightly as he pedaled.

Ruby placed a packed lunch and her binoculars into the small basket on the front of her B.S.A. Keep Fit bicycle, a gift from Rand when it was brand new only two years ago, the same as his bicycle.

She pedaled hard to catch up to Rand as they left the others behind by a few meters.

“So what did you make in the packed lunch?” Rand asked, nodding towards her basket, taking a break from scanning the nearby trees along the path searching for birds.

“Fish and chips,” she replied with a laugh.

He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “Now I know that’s not true.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because you know I don’t like fish. That’s how I know.”

“Oh Randolph, you know me too well.”

The others fell behind a bit as one of them, an elderly gentleman named William Williamson pointed towards a grove of trees and stopped his bicycle. In the distance the group let their bikes drop as they all peered through binoculars, except for William who used his Brownie 127 to capture an image of the fowl.

Rand and Ruby failed to notice as they were ahead of the group. When Ruby turned and realized they were alone, she broached a subject long on her mind but had to build up her courage to ask.

“Rand,” she shook a little as she asked. “Why is it, do you think, that neither of us ever married?”

“Well, you’re too choosy, let’s face it. I set you up with that fellow Edward, he was perfect! But you found flaws.”

She sighed. “And what about you?”

He continued scanning the sky and pedaling. “Dunno. Haven’t found the right bird, I guess.”

“It doesn’t seem that you try very hard.”

“Maybe not,” he said as he braked. “Look!” After gently placing his bike on its side he twisted his body so that the binoculars swung around from his back to his front and caught them in one smooth motion, holding them to his eyes. His finger moved the focus dial as he aimed at the top of a nearby tree. “I think…I think it’s a rare one!”

Ruby propped her bicycle on the kickstand and pulled out her viewers. Aiming in the same general direction as Rand she moved them around a bit and finally spotted the bird. She gasped.

“It’s a Black Redstart! So rare!”

“I knew it! Just remember, I spotted it first. Everyone!” he called to the others before realising they were all gone. “Where did they go?”

“They fell behind ages ago. Williamson spotted something and they stopped.”

“Drat! They’re going to miss this Redstart. They don’t hang around long. Have you ever seen one?”

“I don’t even know anyone who has, to be honest,” she replied.

They both watched the creature in silence. It hopped from one branch to a lower one and froze as it spotted them. They both felt as if it were looking directly at them as they savored the moment.

“Wow, Phoenicurus ochruros. What a magnificent creature.”

He smiled and looked at Ruby. “Absolutely beautiful.”

She looked at him and smiled and he failed to notice her cheeks become the tiniest bit red.

“What do you say we head up that path and try that lunch you’ve made us?”

They both turned to look at the bird, its little orange belly still facing them as it watched them a moment longer, cocked its head and took off, flying out of sight.

*  *  *

The bicycles in the story:

Special thanks to Tracy of this blog for mailing me the photograph all the way from London, England that inspired the story.

Thanksgiving Alone, 1913



Rebecca stared at the empty post card, unsure of how to apologize for missing her parents’ fiftieth anniversary party. Her cousin would surely be there, and she just couldn’t deal with seeing him again after their encounters. It would be too painful. He would get that look of excitement on his face, she would see his smile, and they would end up back in the situation that she’d already put an end to more than once.

She bought her parents a Thanksgiving post card to combine both excuses in one shot; he would be going to that as well. She thought back to the first day when they were hiking to the top of Mount Glade to the famous sunset lookout. Time was running out because she wasn’t in as good of shape as she’d thought and they needed to rush to make it in time. He beat her to the top and as she climbed the final rocks saw him with myriad colors in the background, holding out his hand to her, and she accepted it. Her hand stayed in his without either of them noticing until it was too late.

Thanksgiving was an enormous loss for her. Some of her best childhood memories were those of her father giving thanks before they all dug in. He always named each of his children on that list, and the rare attention from the patriarch always made her heart skip a beat. Of course, he was always thankful for the roof over their head, meals, and baseball games, but she sat anticipating the sound of her name coming from his lips. And now she would miss it.

As she started to scribble the kindest words she could muster for her parents, they flowed rather smoothly. She finished and looked at it, rereading every word and wondering why her hands were shaking. It was horrible to avoid her family because of a few mistakes, but she had no choice; seeing him again would start it all back up and it was wrong. She read the letter once more and realized that it sounded more friendly than loving, but she had to send it as is. Thanksgiving was in two days and it she didn’t have time to go out and buy another card.