Created with my Brother Charger 11 and my mind.
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Posted in flash fiction
Tagged afghan, art, charger 11, envelopes, kitsch, letters, life, poetry, retro, typewriter, typing, vintage
Under the Juniper Tree
<play> for a better reading experience
“Meet me under the juniper tree,” was all that the note said, and so as she reached the summit of the hill on her vintage green bicycle, she saw a picnic blanket, basket, and an opened bottle of wine. And, of course, her boyfriend.
“Cute,” she said as she approached him, leaving the bike propped against the tree. The blanket, an old plaid one from the sixties they’d bought at a yard sale, was held down on each corner by different objects: his journal, the wine, a stack of 45s, and the old battery-operated 45 player they scored at a thrift shop. He moved the needle over the 45 already on the player, and Woman by John Lennon started playing as he stood up and reached his hand out.
“Care to dance?”
She took his hand and they danced under the juniper tree, the wind blowing through the prickly leaves, berries dropping here and there, one landing in her hair. He reached out and pulled it out, fixed her hair where it was messy from his fingers, and then returned his hand to its original position on the hip of her plaid t-shirt dress.
“You’re something else, aren’t you?” she asked. He smiled. “Don’t get a big head over this. It’s impressive, yes, but still, don’t get cocky.” Her smile told him he was doing a good job. “So what’s the occasion?”
He thought about it as they slowly rotated, moving from sun to shade and back again. He finally shrugged. “No occasion. Just felt like it.”
Her arms squeezed a little tighter, making him exhale a little, move his hand up to the back of her head and into her hair, and he brought his lips to hers. She made a tiny sound, letting him know the feeling of excitement in his chest was shared.
The 45 finished playing, and he stopped kissing and released her, returning to the blanket and opening the basket as she just stood there, a bit dazed.
“I got us hummus, pita, and of course, for you, green olives. Blech!” he said as he opened the jar and some of the liquid spilled on his hand. He placed everything on the blanket as she walked over, took her flip flops off and sat, knees together and feet under her.
“How thoughtful! Try one.”
“No.”
“Have you ever had one?”
“As a kid, yes, Gross.” He squinched his face so she understood he didn’t like them.
“Just try one. For me.” He looked at her, she pushed out her lower lip, letting him know he didn’t really have a choice. He opened his mouth, and she threw one at him, missing completely as it rolled down his vintage brown shirt, leaving a small trail of wet brine.
“Nice,” he said, smiling at her as he dabbed at the trail with a napkin. He picked up the olive and threw it into his mouth.
She watched.
“Well?”
“What?”
She laughed. “You like it, don’t you.”
“No!” he said with a sound of defensiveness in his voice. She smiled.
“You don’t have to admit it. But I know you do.”
He put out the food as she poured the wine into plastic cups. They ate in silence for a while, taking turns removing the berries from the hummus as they fell from the tree.
“This is nice,” she said to him after a sip of wine. He smiled at her and refilled her cup, and then his. She spread more hummus onto her pita and then passed it over to him. He took a bite and was surprised.
“There was an olive hidden in there!”
“You’re welcome,” she said with a curt smile. He laughed.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” She nodded.
He spread some hummus on a piece of pita and took a bite.
He thought about it for a few seconds, and after much deliberation said, “Can you pass me the olives?”
After a know-it-all smile at him, she passed him the olives, and a berry bounced right off the bridge of her nose, making both of them laugh.
Posted in flash fiction, Zoey and Xander
Tagged 45, dancing, dating, fiction, flash fiction, hipster, hummus, John Lennon, juniper tree, kissing, kitsch, life, love, lovers, music, olives, picnic, record player, records, romance, vintage
Charger 11
Be sure to watch the accompanying short film capturing some of this moment at the end. Thanks for reading!
Anabelle sat on her stoop, the afternoon sun splashing her face, diffused through the thick leaves of the oak tree in front of her house. She placed the black suitcase-shaped machine on her lap, pushed the two black buttons on the front and gently lifted the cover off her Brother Charger 11 typewriter.
She picked up the bubble-wrap package the mailman left in her doorway and tore the top off with her teeth, dumping the contents onto the ground, including a spool of typewriter ribbon and a receipt, which she automatically threw into her bright blue recycling bin that sat at the bottom of her stoop.
She peeled back the tape that held bubble wrap around the spools and carefully removed them, looking the mysterious objects over, trying to figure them out. She took the cover off her typewriter and looked at all of the little arms that would be creating her work as soon as she figured out how to spool it. She gently pushed the B button, seeing how the mechanism moved, and discovered where the ribbon had to be placed.
After some struggle, she got it under and over all of the right little pegs and was ready to go. Reaching behind her, she grabbed a small stack of old paper, green and faded from age with browned edges, and she pushed it under the big black rubber bar she knew to be the platen (after Googling the parts of a typewriter) and started spinning the dial on the side, hearing the click and watching the paper slowly appear from underneath, nestling safely under the metal beam that held the paper in place.
She started typing and simple words came out, words that people have probably typed millions of times when testing out any sort of writing instrument.
“Anabelle rules.”
“This is fun.”
“Kinks rule.” Okay, that one was just because the record was playing in her house and she could hear the song “A Well Respected Man.”
“Annabelle loves her typewriter.”
All of which were true. She practiced a bit more, sometimes typing specific words, other times just closing her eyes and listening to the sound, a new one to her, of the clicking typewriter parts, the arm slamming onto the paper, and the gentle click of the whole carriage slowly gliding one spot over each time she typed. She tried out all of the buttons, including the ¼ and the * and the @, #, and even the %. She was thrilled and even squealed a little with glee. She even figured out (after a few tries) that for an exclamation point, she had to go back and add a period underneath the single line that the typewriter created.
She grabbed the top of the paper and pulled, hearing the metallic ripping sound the platen made, put in a fresh, clean sheet of vintage paper, readjusted the paper holder, and with a serious look on her face started typing a story.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged Brother, creativity, fiction, flash fiction, hipster, inspiration, Kinks, kitsch, life, records, recycling, stoop, sun, sunlight, typewriter, typing, vintage, vinyl, writing
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
A Flash of Inspiration 