Tag Archives: photograph

A Bad Day

She faced her fear – the big, bad city – on the off chance she would get the job. A cab splashed her as if she were in a movie, so she was waterlogged as she entered the waiting area. The couches were filled by people with portfolios fancier or larger than hers, in some instances both. The room was past the maximum occupancy of confidence, none of it hers. Not to mention during the interview, her potential boss apparently had a cat, so she sneezed her way through most of her answers.

After that tragedy, she decided that her trip to the city shouldn’t be a total waste and stopped at a little café that looked like it was taken right from a French film. She sat at a table outside and ordered a chai latte, watching cars drive by, listening to the constant sounds of city life: horns, passing conversations, even some construction that sounded a block or so away soundtracked her moment, which she was actually starting to enjoy. Maybe the city wasn’t so bad.

That’s when her phone rang and she recognized the number of the place she’d just interviewed. She gasped and fumbled with the phone a bit, excited that they would call so fast.

“Hello, Miss Jason?” a voice on the other line said.

“Oh it’s actually Jansson,” she corrected as she fixed her hair and smiled.

“We just wanted to let you know you left your portfolio here. Please come and get it by the end of the day or it will be discarded.” At that they hung up.

Her eyes glassed up but she refused to let it phase her. After calmly finishing her drink, she headed back to building that already held such miserable memories and rushed up the two flights of stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator. She wanted out of this office, this building, this city as fast as she could.

After snatching her portfolio from the obnoxious receptionist’s hand she rushed the few blocks back to her car only to find her windshield adorned with a parking ticket.

She yanked it out from under the wiper, got into the car, and drove home as fast as she could.

When Grandpa Was a Kid

This, along with many others, is available for sale on my Etsy.

An Elevator, Groceries and a Dog

He walked up to the elevator, which seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual. A young woman stood with seven grocery bags wrapped around her wrists with four more resting on the floor under the buttons while another waited with a dog calmly sitting on the cold linoleum floor.

The bell on the elevator dinged and waited that moment that always occurs between the bell sound and the doors opening and he watched as the grocery girl stood there, just staring at the bags she wasn’t currently holding. He had no idea how she’d even carried so much from the market to the building.

“Can I help you with those?” he asked her.

She laughed awkwardly and nodded. “I was just trying to figure out how I would get them on before the doors closed.”

He returned a laugh, grabbed her bags and carried them onto the elevator. The girl with the dog hit the five button and looked at both of them expectantly.

“Oh I’m on five too.”

“Seven,” she said. “Feel free to put the bags by my feet.”

“No problem,” he said as he followed her instructions.

“Thanks so much,” she said with a smile. He nodded as the doors opened and he followed the girl with the dog out.

As the doors shut and the elevator slid away, the girl with the dog said, “What, do you have a thing for her or something?”

“No,” he responded. “I have a thing for helping my fellow human beings.”

Heart-shaped Leaf

ⓒLynn Wiles Photography. Click on the image for her photography blog.

Her soft hand was in mine, MINE! My hand, covered in black ink from my long day of work. I still couldn’t get over that she was my girlfriend. She must have been reading my mind because she lifted my hand and inspected it.

“Look at all that ink. Don’t you ever wash your hands at work?”

I probably blushed a bit, but guys don’t blush so I won’t admit it.

“I can’t take the time to wash my hands every time ink splatters on them! The book would never get done.”

“I know hun, I’m just teasing you. I love your work.”

She pulled me to the right and into Central Park.

“Let’s walk through the park. It’s Fall…the leaves look beautiful.”

I let her pull me in the direction of the picturesque foliage.

“It’s almost like the trees are on fire! Look at that one!” she said as she tugged me yet again as if my arm were a leash.

“Oh my God! Look at that!” she gasped and pointed at a tiny leaf that looked oddly like a heart. “Do you have your camera?”

“Nope, but I have something better!” I said as I pulled a mini sketchpad and Sharpie from my pocket. Her smile forced me into a smile as well as she sat on a nearby bench, crossed her legs and pulled the end of her plaid dress over her knees. I watched for another moment as she started pulling on the curls of her long brown hair. She caught me looking and smiled.

“Get drawing, Picasso.”

“Picasso wouldn’t – never mind,” I responded. She crinkled her nose and I got to work drawing the leaf. It turned out pretty good, I thought. She ran over after I put the cap back on the Sharpie.

“Can I see?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

I grinned. “You can see it on our anniversary.”

“But that’s a few months away!”

“Guess you’ll have to stick around awhile then, huh,” I said with a smirk.

Special thanks to Lynn Wiles for allowing me to use her photograph.

EATS

Special thanks for the inspiration from photographer Samm Blake whose work can be seen here.

He slammed on the brakes, thrusting her forward. She threw her hand to the dash, her thin arms braced, trying to save herself from a concussion.

“Did you see that? We have to stop for a photo!”

She looked over her shoulder at the road behind them looking for his ambiguous landmark but all she could see were trees and the back of a billboard.

He reversed past the signage and hit the brakes again. Now she understood; the whole ad consisted of one word: EATS.

He was single at the time, sitting at a small independent coffee shop reading on one of those lonely nights where he just had to get out of his empty house. He couldn’t concentrate on his novel; an attractive, almost-too-thin girl was at the table next to his and chatting on her phone. He had a good view of her and pretended to read as he took in her beauty. A plaid shirt would have hidden her size if it weren’t that she had the sleeves rolled up a bit, allowing her thin arms to burst from them.

“I’m tired of it,” she said into her phone in a reserved tone. She dipped into a yogurt-granola-fruit concoction, which made him smile since she skipped the sandwich and chips sitting in front of her and went right for the dessert. It made him look down at his meal, an untouched sandwich and a napkin covered in the remains of what used to be a coffee cake crumble. “I need to switch doctors again. Yet another one refuses to believe me. I eat all the time, and I eat a lot.” She finished the yogurt and started digging into the sandwich as she listened to the other end of the line.

She had beautiful brown hair, long and curly, and her eyes were deep but sad, a trait he noticed right away. He’d always had a thing for sad eyes. The person on the other end of her phone suddenly had to go, so she continued her meal in silence as he continued to feign reading.

He turned to his side to rummage through his bag for a notebook. This woman was some sort of muse, a story hit him and he had to get it on paper before it was too late. He would write it and then share it with her, a way of getting to say hello and maybe get a date with her.

He wrote fiercely as if possessed by some sort of writing demon as the scribbles continued faster and faster, more than once his pen ripped through the page a bit, such was the passion and ferocity of this particular story. If he had his laptop the sounds of the keys would stop readers, put a halt to all conversations and even drown out the sound of the steamers of the cappuccino machine, attracting the attention of all beings in the café and distracting them from the everyday and the mundane and make them all stop and take notice.

When he finally looked up she had left. So ensconced in his work was he that she’d gotten up, packed her things and left before he could even tell her what she’d done.

And the story? It was a masterpiece.

That night on the Craigslist Missed Connections the following was posted:

You: a beautiful and thin girl, mid-twenties wearing plaid in the coffee shop who ate her meal dessert-first while talking about the need for a new doctor.

Me: a kind of shy guy sitting across from you pretending to read while in reality taking in your beauty.

You inspired something beautiful in me, and I feel the need to share with you. Please write me.

After checking his email religiously for a day or so, he’d all but given up when he got the message, the one, from a girl who seemed to fit the description. He responded with the story he’d written in her presence, and so powerful was it that they agreed on meeting at a little café, a different place, to see if they clicked as a couple and not just in a muse-creator relationship. So they met, and they ended up in love and in a car driving down a random road in the middle of nowhere and stopping to take a photograph.

They got out of the car to find a man climbing the ladder to the sign.

“Sir?” he called to the man, who stumbled a bit on the rung at his voice. “Shit, sorry sir! I was just wondering if you would take our photograph up there.”

“You aren’t allowed up here! It’s illegal.”

“Please?” she called to him, giving the older man her winning smile. “It would mean a lot to us.”

He started back down toward the ground.

“I’m sorry, I could lose my job. And anyway, I’m here to take it down. I have a new one over there,” he said as he pointed in the direction of a large pile of folded up vinyl.

“Please sir, it’s important to us. It’s how we bonded.” The man raised a gray eyebrow.

She stepped forward a bit. “You see, I’m thin, and everyone always thinks I’m anorexic or something. I’m not, I can assure you. But I was complaining about it on the phone to a friend almost a year ago, and to make a long story short, it brought us to this moment.” She reached a hand out to her boyfriend, who refused it and pulled her in next to him.

“And my grandmother always used to say that to me. ‘Eats!’ she’d always say, because I’m thin too. She was from Italy, and thought she was saying it right. I always used to laugh. But basically, we’ve both had the same problem over the years, and the word, well, it means a lot to us. Every time we went out I would tell her to ‘eats’ like my grandmother would, and we would laugh about it.”

“Now it’s our inside joke. We tell each other to ‘eats’ with the same meaning as ‘I love you’ and this sign, well, it has a lot of meaning to us.”

The man looked from the couple up to the billboard, then down the road. “Okay okay, you convinced me. Hurry up there but be careful!” She handed him her camera and they climbed as fast as they could and posed as he took the photo.

“One more, just in case!” he yelled after checking the road again. They held each other and he took the picture. They were back down by his side in no time.

“I’m Italian too. I understand the whole pushy Italian grandmother thing. It’s like they always think you’re going to starve,” he said to them.

“Thanks so much, sir,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “This will be one of those moments to remember. Maybe even tell our kids,” he said with a shy smile.

They got in the car and drove off and she looked at the image on the small screen of her digital camera and smiled.

Photograph by photographer Samm Blake whose work can be seen here.

The Girl With Melancholy Eyes

There was once this girl with really sad eyes at a concert and I fell in love with her in an instant. It was at a Belle and Sebastian show (of course, why wouldn’t it be?) and I noticed her when my friend needed a smoke. We headed out to the small corral they created for the tobacco-addicted and I felt like a cow herded into a small enclosure surrounded by metal fences.

The crowd literally shifted and opened and my memory tells me a streetlight shone down on her as if she were on stage under a spotlight. Her short blonde hair, perfect for her face, was brushed out of her eyes by her pale, petite hand and in an instant I could sense, feel, and see how sad she was. She smiled, took a drag on her cigarette, laughed at what someone said to her, yet the melancholy poured from her eyes and into my heart, infecting it.

A moment later she looked over at me and the smile disappeared; she knew I could see into her soul, could sense through her façade that she felt pain. She nodded to me and I smiled, which caused the corners of her mouth to crack a little before returning to her conversation.

Change the World

For sale on my Etsy along with many other works!

Her Little Boy



This work, along with many others, is available on my Etsy.

Paris Seen in Four Days

“Oh my..” she said from the back of the cluttered vintage store. He tried to see her over stacks of antiquated books but could only see her jet black hair, forehead and bright blue eyes as they widened in excitement.

“What did you find?”

“The perfect travel guide.” Her hand reached over the stacks with a small pamphlet-sized booklet that was probably once a deep red but had, over the decades, faded into a pinkish color. He took the small book carefully and looked at the cover.

“Paris Seen in Four Days” he read aloud. “How old is this?”

“I was too excited to look!” she whispered. Now it was her turn to see his brownish eyes widen.

“Wow the map in here is beautiful. I would feel horrible traipsing around Paris with such a work of art.”

She sighed. “I agree. But it’s so magnificent, we could use it to see the city the way people did back then. Is there a year?”

He paused and with care turned the first few pages. “I don’t see any. But it’s probably almost a hundred years, give or take. How old is the metro?”

“The first was in 1900, but the majority of construction would have been in 1920,” she said with an immediateness that made him smile at her obsession.

“Well then it’s not quite one hundred years old then, it has a metro map.”

She suddenly went from a pair of eyes over the books to just the top of her head, he assumed she’d been standing on her toes.

“I think it would be so magical to roam the streets and metro with something like this rather than a modern travel guide.”

“I dunno…what if half this stuff is gone? Or streets changed names?”

“Meet me around the bookcase,” she said as her head bobbed and disappeared around the corner. He followed her instructions. Her eyes still shone bright when they met up.

“Please?” she said with multiple blinks.

“How can I resist?” he asked her as she did a little cheer and then hugged him.

 

Gluten-Free

After a single conversation in the office break room, one in which he mentioned his gluten allergy and his subsequent inability to find a delicious cookie that contained none of the evil flour that was his enemy, she spent hours upon hours working in her small, one-bedroom-apartment kitchen trying to perfect a recipe that was both delicious and safe for her crush of five months. She emerged victorious, with more than a little flour on her cheeks and clothing and a small tupperware container full of her success.

While not gluten-free, these are whole wheat and sugar-free. That’s right, I bake too! 🙂