If you enjoyed this, it’s available, along with many other similar works, on my Etsy. Wrags Ink. is also coming out with a paperback book collecting my work, so stay tuned for more information on that!
Tag Archives: hipster
Optimism
Posted in flash fiction, Typography
Tagged 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, art, beach, beauty, couples, dating, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, family, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, friends, friendship, hipster, holiday, humor, kitsch, life, love, marriage, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, romance, shore, typewriter, typography, vacation, vintage, writing
The Ghost Train
The dilapidated railroad station, aged after years of disuse, loomed above them like a ghost as they trudged up the hill.
“I always come up here when I want to be alone. You’re the first person I’ve brought here.”
She smiled, a little out of breath from the steep path.
The rusted rails disappeared into surrounding woods as she looked left, then right.
“The tracks are unused now, right?”
“Are you nervous?” he said with a smile. “They’re retired. Look at them.” He kicked a bit of rusted metal off the top. “I doubt they’d be safe run a train over them.”
She took his hand. “Thanks for bringing me here. I know this place means a lot to you. Do you ever go inside?”
“There’s a broken window around back, but it’s pretty dirty in there.”
A sound, far off in the distance, made her look to the right. “What was that?”
“I don’t know, but I hear it all the time.”
“It sounded like-“
“Go on…”
“No, never mind.”
He bent down and put his hand on the track. “Feel it.”
She did as she was told and felt the slight vibration. “What is that?”
“You were going to say it sounded like a train was coming, right?”
She nodded, a little unwillingly.
“I hear it all the time. And after I hear it, I can always feel the tracks vibrating the tiniest bit.”
She quickly removed her hand from the rusted metal. She wiped the brown dust off her hands onto her jeans as he stood back up. She stood as well and watched the tracks coming from the woods to the right, waiting.
“It won’t come,” he said, breaking the silence.
“What won’t?”
“The train.”
She took his hand, and squeezed it tight from fear when they heard the sound again, this time closer. It sounded like the echoes of the horn of a train, but not the actual sound itself. She continued to watch, waiting.
Photograph taken by Nessa Skotnitsky of Ethereal Fine Art and Photography.
Posted in flash fiction, Zoey and Xander
Tagged art, beauty, couples, dating, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, Ethereal Fine Art and Photography, fiction, fine art, flash fiction, friends, friendship, funny, ghost train, ghosts, hipster, horror, humor, kitsch, life, love, Nessa Skotnitsky, old buildings, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, retro, romance, train station, train tracks, trains, vintage
My Second Book, Coming Soon!
Coming soon! Wrags Ink., a new publisher in the Philadelphia area, is putting 
out a collection of my typography on vintage photographs! You’ve seen some of them before here and possibly on my Etsy, but this collection has about fifty images and more than half of them have never been seen before! So get ready, readers! My work is also being featured in a few magazines coming out this summer, and I’ll be sure to let you know about that as it comes up!
Also, once the book is out the prices will probably be going up a bit on my Etsy, so if you want any, better get them soon!
Thanks for reading!
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers, Typography
Tagged 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, art, beauty, childhood, children, couples, dating, death, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, family, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, friends, friendship, funny, hipster, horror, humor, kitsch, life, love, marriage, music, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, poetry, reading, records, relationships, retro, romance, sad, typewriter, typography, vintage, writing
Fulfilled Dreams
“When you find all of your dreams fulfilled, it’s time to think up more dreams.”
She looked up at him. “Huh? What’s that from?”
“Me, I guess,” he said with a large, goofy smile. “My dreams are all fulfilled.”
“Really. How so?”
“I have this house I made into a home. My first book is published. And then there’s you. I love going to work most of the time. I am not starving to death, I have my health, you know. My dreams are fulfilled.”
“And?”
“And it’s time for new dreams. Time to start reaching higher.”
“Like…another book?”
“And maybe another girlfriend.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
She threw the copy of ReadyMade she was reading at him but he ducked. “See? Everything’s coming up me right now. You couldn’t even hit me with -”
Another magazine hit him square in the face.
“Nice.”
She smiled. “Gotcha! Don’t be so cocky!”
“Hey, can I help it if I’m happy?”
“I’m glad I’m on that list,” she said, getting up and walking over to the couch.
“That doesn’t mean I want to cuddle.”
“Tough. I came over here to cuddle, and cuddle I will.”
“Fine,” he said in his pretend-frustrated voice. He put his arm around her and pulled her in.
“What’s this you’re working on?” she asked, picking up the notebook he had been writing in.
“Ideas. For my next book.”
“Nice.”
“Like I said, new dreams. Not like my first book is doing well. Even the publisher said it wasn’t selling much. Maybe I can use this to get an agent. Or maybe this is the start of something bigger. It just takes the right person to read it, someone like Chuck Klosterman to tweet it, and next thing I know, it starts selling like crazy.”
“Or?”
“Or nothing. I got a book published. It was one of my dreams. I’m happy. It feels good.”
She dropped the notebook onto the floor and it landed on her crumpled magazine she’d used as a weapon just moments ago.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said after resting her chin on his shoulder.
He smiled. “See? I’m getting everything I want.”
She got up and threw the magazine at his face again.
Posted in flash fiction, Uncategorized, Zoey and Xander
Tagged couples, dating, dreams, entertainment, fiction, flash fiction, found photograph, funny, happiness, happy, hipster, humor, kitsch, my first novel, novel, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, published, reading, ReadyMade, relationships, romance, writing
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.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged 1940s, art, artists, baseball, beauty, Boston Red Sox, couples, entertainment, family, Fenway Park, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, friends, friendship, hipster, kitsch, life, love, marriage, old, painting, park, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, picnic, pictures, playground, relationships, retro, sad, sketching, vintage
I Love Record Store Day
I’d already waited in line for thirty minutes, thinking I would be first if I showed up an hour before the store opened. I was wrong. There were a good number of people ahead and the store was around the corner. But come on, how many could possibly be looking for The Beach Boys’ album, right? I mean, record store day is about the indie music…isn’t it?
The doors opened at ten, a full hour before their usual time, and by eleven I was finally at the door. Eleven fifteen finds me released into the crowded den full of hipsters and gross unshowered balding men with combovers, and as I approached the wall dedicated to record store day releases, I saw the royal blue cover, golden rays shining from the words, The Beach Boys in that hard-to-miss 60s font. As I closed in someone snatched it practically from under my nose, and here I am in line, waiting to purchase the runners-up on my list of top ten special releases. Peter, Bjorn a John, not a band to ignore. Of Montreal, only a thousand pressed. New Pornographers. Decemberists. But the prize, the number one on my list, The Beach Boys including the songs Good Vibrations and Heroes and Villains, an early and alternate take, respectively, my only chance to hear them on vinyl, gone. I tried to hide my dissatisfaction with the day, my disappointment, and I noticed the register girl was the one who always remembered me, knew my music tastes with such perfection that I would blindly buy a record based on her recommendation without even listening to a single song.
“Hey! You made it!” she said to me with her usual winning smile, and I tried to smile back, but the most I could muster was a half-hearted grin.
It was my turn, and she took my records and looked through. She flipped through a second time and reached under the counter.
“Looks like you’re missing one…” she said as she produced a copy of The Beach Boys album, my holy grail for the day. My half-hearted grin turned genuine in a heartbeat. “You want it?”
I nodded, speechless as she rang up my total and I handed her my card without even looking at the price. Who cares, right? It’s record store day.
As I walked toward the door I looked in my bag and once more saw the golden rays shine at me, and I smiled. A quick look at the register and she waved goodbye to me with a huge smile before she took the next person in line.
I love record store day.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged art, Beach Boys, beauty, Decemberists, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, fiction, flash fiction, funny, hipster, humor, indie music, kitsch, life, love, music, New Pornographers, of montreal, people, Peter Bjorn and John, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, rare vinyl, record collecting, Record Store Day, record stores, records, retro, vinyl
Barkley, Mister Hooper and the Farm
He’d left his giant pile of Legos and I’d gotten so used to the noise of him rooting through for specific pieces that the silence pulled my attention out of my book. He was looking out the window watching the rain.
“Guess no playground today, huh dad?”
“Probably not, kiddo. It’s raining pretty hard.”
He went back to the Legos and started sifting through again. I have to give him credit, he handles bad news well.
“Okay, how about we dip into the yard sale stuff?” He perked up instantly and ran to the closet where we keep the “new” toys I yard sale for him. I get so much that my wife and I decided to keep a storage closet of toys for when he deserves a reward or something. It keeps him from being overwhelmed by all of the toys at once and kind of makes it fun for everyone.
“Okay, we have some superheroes, this stack of books, some old wooden puzzles…”
“Wooden puzzles!” he exclaims. I pull down the stack and hand them to him. “Why are they wood? Wood’s so heavy.”
“That’s what some of the puzzles were like when I was a kid. As a matter of fact, I had this one as a kid!”
I found the Sesame Street puzzle and pull it from the pile. Instantly I remember playing with this one in the 70s with my dad and mom. He looks at it and looks up at me.
“You had this one? You watched Sesame Street? Did you love Elmo too?”
“There was no Elmo when I was a kid. But yes, I loved the show. I used to ask for aqua instead of water, that’s how much I watched it.”
I love how slow and deliberate he is with new toys. Any other kid would dump the pieces out, start the puzzle and then move on to another, leaving this one for me to clean up. But not him. He runs his hands across the shiny wood, feels the little knobs and then starts naming Muppets.
“Big Bird!”
“Yup.”
“Grover?”
I nod. Then he comes across the big, shaggy white, orange and brown dog.
“Who is this? I don’t know this dog!”
“That’s Barkley. I don’t know if he’s on the show anymore. I haven’t seen him. I’m surprised I remembered his name!”
He frowns and looks at me. “Where did he go?”
“Um…maybe he moved to a farm.”
“Were there others who moved to the farm?”
“Mister Hooper…kind of.”
He starts pulling the knobs and realizes there are more characters behind them. “Whoa! Oscar was behind Big Bird! Look there’s Big Bird’s nest!” I smile. I can’t believe I remember this puzzle so clearly. I must have been three or four when we had it. “There’s The Count! One! Ha ha ha…” I try not to laugh at his impression. It’s not very good. “Cookie Monster! He’s eating a cookie! I hope he ate his carrots first!” I find that a little disturbing, but only a bit.
He goes through each piece, looking at what’s behind it and then gently placing it back until he’s checked them all twice, then pushes it away.
“Want to do another? I have a Bert and Ernie one, Cabbage Patch Kids and Wuzzles.”
“What’s a Wuzzle?”
“I have no legitimate answer to that,” I say.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged 1970s, Barkley, Bert and Ernie, Cabbage Patch Kids, childhood, children, dad and son, entertainment, family, fiction, flash fiction, hipster, humor, kitsch, legos, love, Oscar the Grouch, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, playground, puzzles, rainy day, relationships, Sesame Street, The Count, vintage, what happened to Mister Hooper, Wuzzles
My first book!
My first book is out and available via Amazon! Check out the paperback or Kindle version HERE or click the cover art:
War. . .murder. . .disease. . . A zombie cares not for these things. In a zombie apocalypse, you’re only as powerful as the weapon you wield, only as strong as those you surround yourself with, but no matter how hard you try, you probably won’t survive in the end. The Z Word is a collection of short stories about people trying to do just that. Zachary, a former nerd, uses his vast knowledge of zombies learned from pop culture to survive, rescue others and even-he hopes-get his first girlfriend. A principal strives to keep the few child survivors alive in a school, while neighbors battle it out over a zombie hunting contest, and a teenage girl leaves home to take her chances out on the road. Some barricade themselves inside their homes while others stay on the move. But humanity will endure and humans can sometimes be the best in the worst situations. The Z Word is a manual of what to do-and not to do-in a world ruled by the dead. Don’t make the same mistake others have, heed these stories . . .they may be your only chance at survival.
Posted in flash fiction, Horror, The Z Word: Origins
Tagged apocalypse, apocalyptic fiction, art, dennis finocchiaro, fiction, first book, hipster, horror, Kindle, love, novel, published, record, romance, short stories, survival, The Z Word, undead, zombies
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.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged 1950s, art, beauty, city of lights, couples, dating, entertainment, fame, fear, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, friends, friendship, hipster, kitsch, life, London, love, model, nudes, Paris, people, photo, photograph, photographer, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, retro, romance, vintage, vintage photograph, writing
A Flash of Inspiration 