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Tag Archives: love
Sweet Sixteen (1964)
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
Shards
She walked in and after a quick hug hello I asked. I just had to. I couldn’t wait another minute since the discovery I made while she was at work.
“So I was cleaning under the sink today,” as her eyes widen. “And I found a few broken mugs and a bowl.” I pause to see if she reacts. Besides the larger-than-usual look in her eyes and a tinge of obvious guilt, nothing. “Know anything about them?”
She walks past me and heads for the stairs.
“Hello?”
She turns and stomps back towards me.
“What.”
“Did you put them there?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.” Straight faced.
“Really?”
“No, I didn’t.”
We live alone, besides our cat.
“So, what, the cat broke some mugs and a plate and hid them under the sink?”
Nothing.
“Maybe I should be having this conversation with the cat?”
Still nothing. She looks away. I can’t let this go, not because I had any real emotional attachment to the kitchenware, but because I have to understand why someone who was well over the age of ten would hide something she broke.
“Why did you hide them?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“I dunno.” This is the girl I chose?
This is easily the weirdest thing she’s done. I can’t figure it out.
“Could you please, please tell me why you stuffed them under the sink? I mean, if you didn’t want me to find out, why hide them? Why not just throw them out?”
She looks away again like a scolded child.
“So you didn’t do it. You didn’t break these.”
“No,” but this time in a low voice.
“Okay then. I guess it will remain a mystery.”
“Yup.” She walked back up the stairs.
I dropped the shards into the trash as I heard the shower turn on.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged broken bowl, cat, crazy, fiction, flash fiction, humor, insane, insanity, kitchen, kitchenware, life, love, mug, odd, psycho, relationships, shard, strange, stress
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
The Translucence of Jellies
Enjoy the short film at the end of this blog for more photographs.
We stood there, mesmerized by the relaxing, almost magical movements of the hundreds of jellyfish in the tank before us. In slow motion her hand left her side and reached toward mine as the translucent creatures swam around in the large tank, and once I realized her hand’s destination I started moving mine toward hers as well without taking my eyes off the glowing ocean dwellers. The tentacles, like little legs, kick off against nothing as one of the jellies swims in our direction, unaware as yet of the glass keeping it at bay, and I reach my free hand up and press it against the glass as if I could share a moment with this creature. Meanwhile, her fingers grasp and wrap around mine and she pulls a little closer to me as the jellyfish continues on course toward my hand, only to bump up against the glass, turn and swim away.
The word translucent inspired this story, passed on to me by Elle.
Posted in flash fiction, Inspired by a word...
Tagged aquarium, Baltimore Aquarium, calm, fiction, film, flash fiction, harmony, jellyfish, Jonsi, life, love, movie, music, ocean, peace, photography, romance, sea life, video, writing
The Pillow Baby
Olive leaned against the heavy mahogany door upon entering, sighed and tried to relax. The party celebrating her parents’ fortieth anniversary in the most exclusive restaurant in town was a trial, especially with Darren in Africa on business yet again. It seemed as if her mother had informed everyone about how long they’d been trying and failing; aunts, cousins and even strangers were giving her all sorts of ridiculous folk cures. Her mother shared her most intimate and private problems with so many people.
The year of negative pregnancy tests and constant monthly reminders of her fate.
The frantic calls telling him to get home, racing the clock for attempts that never produced.
The genetics test for every defect under the sun on both her and her husband.
The ovulating tests. The monthly, then bi-weekly, and finally weekly ultrasounds.
And the drugs. Oh the drugs. Her medicine cabinet would spill out piles of orange and white bottles, an avalanche of reminders.
Olive sighed and moved away from the door toward the room they’d decorated, in case it ever were to happen, and leaned over the dusty furniture, snatching a frilly pillow that was spotted with small green dots. She meandered up to her room and lowered herself onto the bed without even removing her gold sandals, hugging the pillow to her chest and inhaling the smell of the store where they’d bought it, the cushion still fresh and new as if they had not purchased it years ago. She slid it towards her belly a bit, wondering what it would be like, and then lifted her designer silk dress and placed the pillow under it.
She tried to imagine what it would be like as her hands held the faux belly as if she were feeling for movement. She felt nothing, something she was becoming used to in more ways than one.
She reached over to the bed stand and picked up her phone, left behind for the night on purpose. Her doctor was supposed to call earlier today and let her know if they had been successful, and as she pushed the send button her phone lit up, showing a notification that she had a missed call and a voicemail.
Her head turned toward the photographs on their nearby dresser, family portraits from her childhood, with the family portraits of her three brothers next to them: all the brothers had five of six children. The photos were accompanied by a picture of her sister and her sister’s wife, standing with their adopted daughter. Olive loved each of those children as if they were her own, but in the moment turned away from them in disgust. She wanted to run over and open the top drawer and with her arm shove them all out of her sight forever, or until this all finally ended.
She reached over and dropped the phone back onto the bed stand and let her hands run over the pillow again, drifting off into a listless sleep, imagining the best, but not ready to hear the worst.
Photograph by Tom Hinds.
Watch for this story from Darren’s point of view later this week!
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged art, babies, baby, beauty, depression, family, life, love, marriage, medicine, mother, parenting, photography, pills, pregnancy, pregnancy problems, problems, sadness, ultrasound, wannabe mother, writing
The Boy With No Happy Ending
Artwork by Kate Hiscock of Slightly Me
He watches them embrace from across the street, right under the little orange hand that warns him it was not safe to cross. It glows, mocking him, forcing him to keep his distance.
He wants what they have. But he know his role in life, he knows where this all ends up.
He is the boy with no happy ending. If his past has taught him anything, it is this. And he accepts it.
He has this power over people, they find him so interesting, so quirky, so rare.
And yet he will never find love. And he accepts this.
The couple across the street, coming in and out of view as cars rushed by blurring his view of them, move as if under a strobe light.
Flash. They are kissing.
Flash. She pulls away.
Flash. He smiles.
Flash. She smiles.
Flash. They kiss again.
He watches, trying not to, attempting to look away before they notice how he stares at their obvious and understood love for each other. Everyone witnessing this moment can see their devotion. It is clear.
He wants a beautiful person to kiss on a corner, a sad goodbye even though they both know they will be in each other’s arms again later that night.
He will never meet that girl. And he accepts this.
More cars.
Flash. He gently strokes the tattoo on her arm.
Flash. She brushes a tuft of his dyed blonde hair away from his face.
Flash. He does the same to her and laughs.
Flash. She lets out a flirtatious giggle.
Flash. They are kissing again.
A bus passes and The Boy With No Happy Ending notices a woman on it with messy hair and an oversized gray sweater on. She is staring out of the window with a distant, melancholy look, and he knows how she feels.
As the bus pulls away, leaving a dark cloud of pollution behind it, he sees that the couple is no longer embracing on the corner. The girl is walking away, the guy is walking towards his side of the street.
The orange hand disappears, and the little white man appears, telling the boy it’s now safe to cross.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged art, couples, depression, fiction, flash fiction, hapy endings, humor, life, love, photography, photoshop, poem, poetry, romance, sad, sadness, slightly me, slightlyme, superpower, unhappy
The Soup (A Flash Fiction Story)
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged art, childhood, cleaning, cooking, death, estate sale, family, fiction, flash fiction, food, grandmother, life, love, poem, poetry, reminiscing, retro, soup, typewriter, vintage
Barbecue From Hell (A Flash Fiction Story)
“You don’t eat meat? What the hell do you eat then?” asked my host, wearing a shirt that said democrat for the ‘irony’ of it, as he explained it to me upon my arrival.
Here we go, I thought to myself. How do I answer this? All eyes turned to me, all strangers, me in a place where I just DO NOT belong.
“It’s a choice. I choose not to eat it.”
“Why the hell not?” said another, bigger man with a shaved head and a wife-beater.
“Um…”
I don’t even know what to say. I feel ridiculed, scorned, picked on. This is the first anyone has talked to me at this party, and I don’t even have a response that they could possibly understand. And I can’t REALLY stand up for myself, because she works with some of them, most of them in fact, considering this is a company picnic. I hate Fourth of July.
Last year, I went to my friends’ house, a nice couple I’ve known for years. I was single, they were having a small get together, and they were all-foods friendly. They even had a small extra grill for the Vegans who wouldn’t even let their veggie burgers touch something that touched meat. These were my people.
I thought if I stalled long enough, this particular group would suddenly forget what they were talking about and move on to some other topic. After suggesting tying me down and shoving food down my throat, the wanted distraction appeared.
“Can you believe what that <insert the n-word> in the White House did this week? It’s called the White House for a reason.”
Good God. Where in the hell am I? And where did my girlfriend go? I look up the hill where she disappeared with her cubicle-buddy ten minutes ago and try to psychically call her.
“Bullshit. Utter bullshit. Do I really need this Obamacare crap?”
“And you know, I got into a line for it the other day, and I had to wait thirty minutes! Thirty!”
“Me too!”
So they hate it, yet still are already trying to sign up. Nice. I can’t believe this. I could be with that same couple from last year. They invited me. Or my parents’ house. Or sitting alone at home reading a book. Even diarrhea would be better than this. No lie.
I guess I must love my girlfriend for letting all this happen without a peep. Maybe I should tell her. Maybe I should wait until after this travesty in case I change my mind.
“Oh did you see my new bumper sticker? It’s genius, absolute genius.”
Oh no, what now?
“I saw it!” said one of the women as her face lit up. “It says-“
He cuts her off. “You’re in America. Speak American!” They all start laughing.
I wasn’t aware American was a language. I thought about saying so, but figured if I wanted to get out alive, I should probably just keep my liberal mouth shut. They were, after all, already onto me.
“Brilliant!”
Is it?”
“Best sticker ever!”
I actually even think the My Other Car is a Nimbus 2000 Harry Potter sticker is better than that. Even a Twilight sticker is better. I was always a fan of Mr. Yuck as well.
A man in an apron with the body of a naked woman on it (and I don’t mean the bikini-clad woman, I mean naked) came in and said, “The pig’s roasted! Burgers are ready! Come and get it!”
The host started ushering people towards the pavilion. As they all left, I was only one left behind with him.
“Hey, buddy,” he said to me. “Want some pig, or a burger?”
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged apron, barbecue, boyfriend, closed-mindedness, democrat, drama, fiction, girlfriend, harry potter, hatred, healthcare, humor, hypocrite, irony, life, love, meat, obama, obamacare, pig roast, racism, republican, spoof, twilight, vegan, vegetarian
Anhedonia
“Sometimes I swear you’re so negative you might be anhedonic.”
“What?” he asked me with a sullen look on his face.
“You can’t even be happy over the little things, simple everyday items. Like – what’s your favorite food?”
“You know it’s pizza. Come on.”
“What did we have for dinner?”
He sighed and looked away.
“Well? We had pizza. From your favorite place. Where the sauce is on top of the cheese. Did you say anything positive while we ate? Afterwards? Anything?”
He continued to look away.
“I swear I can’t take much more of this. I’m not even sure you enjoy having sex with me. When was the last time you put the moves on me? Do you even know?”
“Sure, it was last week. After your cousin’s birthday party.”
“That was two months ago. Two. Not a week.”
He looked out the window at a car passing by. He turned his attention back to me.
“What did you call me earlier?”
“Anhedonic.”
He opened his laptop and started typing.
“Are you Googling it?”
“No. Yeah.”
I smiled a little despite myself. “Well I can save you time. It basically means you don’t have the ability to experience pleasure in the normal, everyday things human beings enjoy. It’s a sad way to go through life. You weren’t always like this.”
He closed the computer and looked me in the eye for the first time in a while.
“Maybe I was faking it when we met. Maybe I have always been like this. What do you know? I could be the world’s best actor.”
“Could be, I guess.” I looked away, out the window at a couple walking by and holding hands. “I think I want out. I can’t date someone like this. You sit around, you do nothing but wait for me, and you don’t attempt to make yourself happy. I try all the time. I surprise you with pizza, I force you to go for walks – even when our friends come over to play games you’re miserable and barely speak.”
He frowned again, got up from his seat, and went to the fridge. He opened it, looked around inside, and stood there with the door open.
“What were you looking for?”
“I dunno. Nothing.”
“Hungry?”
“Nah.”
“Thirsty?”
“Nah.”
I tapped my fingers on the table as he shut the door and returned to his seat.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged break up, breakup, couple, fight, frustration, humor, life, love, relationships
A Flash of Inspiration 