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The Rooftop Getaway

The party, her party, was in full swing, as they say. Hundreds of her friends, her friends’ friends, and many complete strangers showed up for her food, her booze, to abuse the pool and the rest of her mansion. She felt like someone was secretly filming her and she had to escape.

The living room was full, as was the billiard room, the sauna, and all of the thirteen bedrooms. The foyer was full of coats and hats, the library was strewn with half-full cups hanging dangerously close to the edges of tables, threatening her aged and antique books. People had even spilled into the butler’s quarters, vacated for the weekend by her parents’employee for a trip.

She really only had one place to go, her secret place. She trudged up to the third story and unlocked the attic door, passed piles of vintage expensive furniture hiding under old sheets, passed the old moose head and stuffed bear her grandfather had shot decades before, to the oversized window that led to the roof. She pushed it and relaxed a bit as it squeaked open.

As she stepped out onto the roof she found that some of the balloons had gotten away from the guests and somehow landed here. She stepped onto the sill and stretched, her elbows rubbing the red brick walls, making her wince and check them for blood. No blood. Just a bit of red irritated skin with a little brick stubble mixed in. She would live.

She walked onto the roof toward the slanted shingles and began tidying up by picking up a bunch of the balloons, and then she stopped and sighed. Her odd neighbor always showed up handing out random balloons to guests, the reason something she could not fathom.

She never understood how these parties happened, what led all of those people to her home when her parents were away, but they always just seemed to know. They would come, abuse her home and her family money, and then go, leaving behind a mess that would take days to clean. And the damage…if the house weren’t so big her parents would notice, but these days they didn’t seem to notice anything.

She walked to the edge and looked down at the party, then walked to the other side and peered over the slant roof down into the rectangular pool that went unused for the past few years, ever since they had the endless pool installed on the other side of the house. Captured in the water were a few more rogue balloons floating slowly around the glass-like water, and past the pool a bit was the odd neighbor, still holding a bunch of balloons.

She returned to the wall next to the window and leaned against it, sliding down until she landed on the shingles under her and she sighed, holding the balloons, waiting for the party to end.

Photos by Geraldine, who has a Flickr. The model is Manon, and this is her blog. The concept for the photographs was a collaboration of the two.

Years Later On the Beach

I am now selling digital prints and ORIGINAL one-of-a-kind prints of my typography stories on ETSY. Please stop by the shop and check them out!

Read a Comic in Public Day

He was sitting on the bench on his street reading The Walking Dead when the stranger approached him.

“Hi there. Reading a comic, huh?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“In public?”

“Yeah, that’s the general idea.”

“You know Read a Comic in Public Day was yesterday, right?”

He looked over his copy of The Walking Dead and raised his eyebrows.

“You’re a day late,” she said with a sly smile.

“I worked all day yesterday. A double. And it doesn’t have to be Read a Comic in Public Day to read a comic in public. Maybe I sit here every Sunday and read. Maybe I read novels, literature, classics, and everything else on Sundays. Maybe this week just happens to be a comic.”

“Maybe,” she said with a hint of doubt, “But I doubt it,” she finished as she sat next to him. “Walking Dead, huh? Like zombies?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“True, true. So what did you read sitting here last week? War and Peace? Great Gatsby, perhaps?”

His face turned the slightest hint of red. “The Last Man,” he mumbled.

“Thought so,” she smiled.

She riffled through her bag and pulled out an earlier copy of The Walking Dead.

“Mind if I join you? I worked a double yesterday too.”

“Sure.”

She opened it to page one. “Just don’t tell me what happens. You’re ahead of me.”

He continued to read, but now with a big smile on his face.

After the Picnic

Found photo with typography from my Brother Typewriter.

NEW! This print, along with others, is now available on my ETSY.

The Boy in the Tea House

This was her third time in the tea house, but her first alone. The waiter, a senior at her school, had complimented her necklace last time she was there with her grandmother, and she was excited that he even noticed her, let alone talked to her in public.

She wrote his name over and over in a little journal she had.

She talked about him to her best friend.

Her grandmother had even said to her, “What a nice boy he is. Is he a friend of yours?” Which of course caused her to blush.

And now, after weeks of preparing herself mentally, she was back at the tea house, alone. She wore her favorite sundress, pinkish-purple, the necklace again (of course), and carried her money in a heart-shaped purse she’d bought just for the occasion. Also, as an excuse for going alone, she brought an old copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn to feign reading.

When she entered the little home-turned-shop, he was by the door.

“Hey you, back again huh? No grandmother this time?”

She giggled, blushed and stammered something she hoped made sense.

“Well, let me show you to your table,” he said with a smile as she swore she noticed a twinkle in his perfect blue eyes.

She was so flustered that she slammed her purse down a bit too hard, the chain going wild.

“What will you have?” he asked.

She already knew her favorite tea, but still took a moment to gain the nerve to talk to him.

“Earl Grey, please.”

He smiled and left her.

She opened the book and tried to read it, but was mostly watching him walk from one spot to the next behind the counter, getting her drink ready. After a few minutes the sound of water boiling warned her of his imminent return.

“Your tea.” He said, holding up the teapot.

She nodded and pretended to read.

“Hello? Would you like it?”

She nodded again, face starting to turn red, wondering what he was doing.

“Um…your purse.”

She looked under the book to see that the chain of her purse had somehow ended up in the teacup, keeping him from pouring the water.

“Oops,” she said, redder than ever, ears burning, as she removed her purse from the table.

She would never, ever, ever in a million years live that moment down.

Heart-Shaped Purse photograph by the amazing Manon De Sutter. This photograph, along with a few of her others, inspired this story. Please check out her work.

The World’s Largest

It was September of 1966, and the girls were too excited to sleep, concentrate on their homework, play in the yard or even watch their weekly shows.

Grandpa was coming.

They hadn’t seen him in over six months. He’d bought the camper after mother passed and had been seeing the world ever since, fulfilling her dream of wandering the country trying to see all of the best places.

National landmarks? No. Famous museums? Nope. Skyscrapers, cities, overlooks, natural wonders? I only wish.

She wanted to see all of the sideshows.

As a little girl, her father had a business venture out in the middle of nowhere, and due to reasons never fully explained to me, there was one time that he had to bring a young version of my mother with him. On the way home, he was particularly exuberant due to such a successful meeting that, in his good mood, he detoured at a sign that said, “Come see the world’s largest frying pan.” And that’s when she caught the bug.

I always thought it was about the rare moment she shared alone with her father. Her mother never really left her father’s side, which is why I’ve always been curious as to the events that lead them to this trip without her. But she always told me it was about the sheer size of it, the fathoming of how a job that large could even have been completed. The pan was the size of a house, she’d said.

Anyway, she spent so many years talking about traveling cross-country to see these monuments to human wastefulness, but they’d only seen about seven or eight; father was all about the history of our great country, not oversized objects. So he started this adventure and spent a chunk of their savings on a camper to see as many of them as possible, I think out of guilt.

So now, my girls, who love their grandpa very much, who have spent the last half of a year missing him, are excited at the prospect of his arrival.

Every car that drives down the street calls them to the window.

“Is it him?” I would ask.

“Nope,” Linda would say with a dejected look on her face.

“Uh-uh,” Nancy would respond, slumping back onto the couch.

“You know, girls, he may not even get here today. He’s driving a lot, there’s traffic, accidents, and he’s old, he needs to sleep and rest sometimes.” They hated hearing this.

It was the next day when he finally showed up, and the girls were distracted by a new board game I’d set out for them. It was the loud bang of the camper’s old engine that made them jump up and run to the window. “He’s here!” Nancy shouted as she ran to the door, Linda’s little legs trying to keep up with her big sister.

Nancy threw the door open and ran out to my father, who was coming up the drive. “Hello my princesses, how I’ve missed you!” he exclaimed, reaching out and wrapping his arms around the two of them, lifting them off the ground to a chorus of giggles. “My how you’ve grown!”

As he put them down they blushed and then became shy.

“I hope you girls are ready, after dinner I’m going to put on a slide show!”

Oh no. A slide show. My parents had been putting us through those for years, and they were one thing I didn’t miss. And to think those were shots of historical landmarks and beautiful, picturesque landscapes. The last thing I wanted to see was a photograph of the world’s largest artichoke.

“I even got one of the world’s largest artichoke! Well, it’s a photograph of a photograph, of course, but it’ll do.”

The girls ran around a bit and as they tired themselves out I approached.

“Hey dad. How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better! When’s dinner? I’ll get the slide projector set up for after!”

Dinner came and went, a bit too fast for my liking, when dad got up and went out to the camper, returning with a brown paper bag. “We’ll do the slide show in a moment, it’s still a bit light out. But first we’ll do gifts!”

The girls got excited and started smiling as he rooted through the bag.

Stephen, at the head of the table, was the first recipient. “Okay for my favorite son-in-law, a t-shirt!” It was a shirt that had a drawing of a man leaning against an artichoke that was almost his size, and it said “I Got Choked Up at the World’s Largest Artichoke, Castroville, CA” and he smiled.

“Wow, thanks Bill,” he said, barely containing a laugh.

I got a mug that had the words “Come Say Your Prayers at the World’s Largest Rosary” and it had the rosary around the lip. “Wow dad, this is great. Where did you see this, again?”

“Oh it says it on the bottom, Newport, Rhode Island.”

I smiled.

“And for my special little granddaughters, I got you these!” They were two stuffed strawberries.

“World’s largest strawberry?” I asked.

“Yup, Strawberry Point, Iowa. Stood on top of a pole. It was a statue, of course. But quite large, even for a statue!” He looked out the dining room window. “Well, kids, it’s dark enough, everyone get ready for the show!”

We assembled in the living room on the couch as he doused the lights and turned on the projector. It started with a shot made from a titling set we bought him before he left. “World’s Largest” it said.

“Clever title, Bill,” my husband stated dryly.

“Thanks! Okay here we go!”

And thus started a cavalcade. A stuffed steer that almost reached the ceiling. A statue of a sharptail grouse (I didn’t even know what one was until then) that he’d driven all the way to Canada to see. A doorknob (I’m not kidding). A dog dish (again, not a joke). A shot of a penny with Lincoln’s head larger than my father. A potato. Yes, a potato. Followed by a huge pierogi statue on a fork. The shots went on and on until about an hour later, when we were finally saved by that giant white light of emptiness in the slide cartridge.

Stephen and I clapped, the girls snored.

The next morning as I served breakfast he had a surprising announcement.

“I’ll be heading back out after breakfast.”

“Oh I’m sure whatever you need we have here, dad,” I responded.

“No, I meant back on the road.”

I looked at the girls, who both teared up.

“But dad,” I said to him softly. “You just got here. We were going to take you to the pool today. The girls-“

He looked down at the eggs I’d placed in front of him. “I’m sorry, dear, but they’ll understand one day. This is something I have to do.”

After breakfast he brought his already-packed bag down and had his camera.

“Come on, girls, let’s ask your mother to get a photograph of us outside of the camper.”

We all went outside and while the girls checked out the inside of his vehicle, he hugged me. “Sorry darling, but you have to understand. I still have a lot to see before-”

I didn’t want him to finish so I hugged him again. Stephen came up and shook his hand.

“Girls, come out and let’s get your photograph with grandpa.”

They came out and posed with him in front of the camper as I took the shot. They looked a bit sad to see him go so soon, this man whom they adored.

“Drive safe,” Stephen said to him.

“Always,” he said, gave me one last hug, then picked up each of the girls and giving them a kiss.

He pulled himself up into the driver’s seat with some difficulty, shut the door, started the engine and then rolled down the window.

“Where will you go, dad?”

“Circleville, Ohio. World’s largest pumpkin, which they then made into the world’s largest pumpkin pie.”

He smiled a huge smile, waved and drove off.

A Perfect Sunday

As he sat in his moon chair listening to the rain he realized what a perfect Sunday it was.

Peaceful.

Relaxing.

He felt the excited/trapped feeling people get sometimes in storms. Moments like this had been his favorite since he was a child.

It was nearly perfect, but something was missing. As soon as he recognized what else the day called for, he ran to his record collection, moved a lamp close by so he could read them in the cloudy darkness, and pulled out all four of his Smiths records. He put one on, turned the sound down to a three, and returned to the moon chair just as A Rush and A Push and the Land is Ours started up on the player.

Perfection.

Who is Your Favorite Muppet?

“Who is your favorite Muppet?”

She looked up from the puzzle they were working on, a large version of The Great Muppet Caper movie poster. She had what looked like Gonzo’s nose in her hand.

“Come on, you don’t know this one?” she responded with a sly smile.

He laughed. “It’s probably Miss Piggy.”

She shifted in her seat. “Ew. Miss Piggy isn’t anyone’s favorite.”

“When we were little and played Muppets, we always made my cousin Miss Piggy because she would get mad.”

“You’re sick. Wait, how did you play Muppets?”

He laughed. “You can’t really. It was mostly just to piss her off. I don’t think we ever even really played. She usually ran off and told on us, and then we’d get yelled at and forget the game.”

She found the rest of Gonzo in the many little islands of puzzle they’d completed and pushed it into its spot.

“Victory!”

“Are you going to say that every time you get two pieces to fit?”

“Mhmm,” she said as she stuck her tongue out at him.

At that point, the record they were listening to stopped and he got up to flip it.

“I love you,” she said. He stopped and looked at her, wondering where that came from. “What? I do. Only you could get me to sit here and talk about Muppets while we put together a Muppet puzzle and listen to The Muppet Movie soundtrack on vinyl. Where did I find you?”

He laughed as he flipped the record, hit start and returned to his spot, picking up a loose piece and staring at the little islands again.

“You didn’t answer me. Where did I find you?”

“You didn’t answer me either about your favorite Muppet. You found me at a coffee shop. I was too adorable to resist. Now answer me.”

“No.”

He looked up from his work and started laughing.

“Answer!”

“NO!”

He put on his serious face and she looked away. Finally she answered.

“Miss Piggy.”

A Great Road Trip

They put their vacation on hold for a few minutes when they saw the flea market sign. He slammed on the brakes, throwing a cloud of dust up from the dirt road their GPS lead them to, and made a quick turn.

“Is it okay?”

“Of course it is!” she said with an excited smile. “Although we really don’t need bait or ice.”

“Very funny,” he said as he pulled into the empty lot.

They got out of the car and couldn’t help but notice the building, a run-down diner on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

“Maybe the sign should say “Horror Movie” or something. Feel like we might be killed?”

“It’s entirely likely,” she said with a pretend-scared face. “Come on, the yard sale must be around back.”

They ignored the rusty screen door hanging from one hinge and passed the diner made of what looked like light blue, chipping paint. The windows were too dirty to see in clearly, but the lights appeared to be on inside and someone was standing at the counter, but not moving.

“This really is like a horror movie,” he said. She nodded as they turned the corner.

Behind the diner there were several little bungalows covering shelves that held countless objects. Thousands of old items were piled everywhere, yet appeared to be organized. One shelf in the far corner of the lot was piled with old glasses, jars and vases. Each bungalow seemed to be organized in some way, although neither of them could figure out the order.

Beyond the eternal yard sale were huge ditches, run-down vehicles, piles of chopped wood accompanied by a colorful beach umbrella and old farming equipment.

“I keep waiting for a creepy, dirty man in overalls and no shirt to come out with some kind of ax he’s just slaughtered today’s special with,” he said.

“I know, right? But I have to photograph this.”

“Obviously.”

As she walked around snapping shot after shot he searched through the piles of stuff. Old wanted posters. Roller skates. Broken typewriters. Vintage statues and figures of every animal that ever existed. He found an owl and held it up for her.

“Hey, check it out! An owl!”

Her head poked out from the next bungalow over, her camera strap around her neck. “Say cheese!” she said as she held it up and snapped a shot. She looked at the screen. “Too dark. Sorry,” she said as she deleted it.

He continued to root through the randomness of the collection, sure he would find something here that he wanted. He always did. A random old toy. A cartoon character drinking glass. Postcards. Photos. Something that would inspire a story. He kept looking as she took shot after shot.

“Make sure you get one of the roller skates,” he yelled.

“Done and done!” her voice called from a hidden part of a bungalow.

He smiled. Their thought patters were always so similar.

He went to the far corner of the lot and surveyed the land around it, the broken down vehicles, the rusty old unrecognizable objects. He wanted to shoot a horror film here. Or write one, at least. Do something. His skin tingled with ideas.

She finally emerged. “Damn, already took two hundred photos. Now I’ll have to upload them tonight when we get there to make some space on this thing!”

This was going to be an inspiring trip.

More Fun Than a Barrel of Monkeys

“What are those?” she said, crinkling her nose as she usually would to a vegetable she discovered on her plate that she didn’t like.

“They were called Barrel of Monkeys. This was the only toy my great grandmother had at her house, so every year on New Year’s Day we would be forced to play with them because there was nothing else to do.”

She poked one as if they would bite. “They look boring.” A typical four-year-old response. “How do we play?”

“Well,” I said, picking up a red one. “You’re supposed to start with one, and try to hook another one onto his tail by the hand. See?” I demonstrated. She didn’t look amused. I picked up a yellow one by the hand, and then proceeded to a green one.

“Let me try?”

“Of course, that’s why I got them.”

She picked one up, yellow of course, that being her favorite, and she started trying. After a few failed attempts she got one and I applauded her.

“Great job!”

“Yeah, I guess.”

She tried again, and again, getting five in a chain before she dropped them.

“This is boring.”

“It is not, watch. I’ll try to get a bunch.”

I picked up one, hooked it to another, then another, then another, and kept going until I had about ten. She had picked up a copy of ReadyMade magazine and started turning pages as if she could read it, and I realized I was playing alone. I dropped the string of seven monkeys I had going and with my hand swept them all back into the barrel.

“You’re right. These are boring.”

She smiled and went back to pretending to read the magazine.