This original print, along with many others, is available on my Etsy. Make sure to check out my new novel, The Z Word, available here.
Tag Archives: photos
Safe in a Zombie Apocalypse
Posted in flash fiction, Horror, Typography, Uncategorized
Tagged 1950s, 1960s, apocalypse, art, beauty, found photograph, horror, kitsch, life, original art, people, photo, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, survival, typography, vintage, vintage photograph, zombie, zombie apocalypse
Vantage Point
Terese stood looking up at the perfect blue sky and fluffy clouds before she gathered the nerve to go to the edge and look down on everyone. The building wasn’t that high, and while she could appreciate an amazing view of the city, her fear of heights tended to take over. But she wanted to, so she forced herself, inch by inch, her high heels scraping the cement with each half-step, toward the wall that overlooked the courtyard below.
Ole had been difficult all day; as a matter of fact, he hadn’t been fun to travel with at all. His constant complaints were annoying, his mood swings obnoxious, and his hatred of people in general was exhausting. She practically had to drag him onto the metro and to the different sights. If she left it up to him they would stay in the hotel most of this trip, and he wouldn’t even be trying to have sex with her. He was more likely to watch television.
Terese shook her hands a bit, then her head, her black hair flinging until she stopped and it was frazzled, a strand or two sticking to her lipstick. She wanted to forget the frustration of her relationship and think about the view, attempt to check out Oslo with a positive mind instead of one focused on her problems. She boldly stepped to the edge and looked below to see people milling around. She sighed and enjoyed a pleasant moment, her first one on the trip thus far. She felt the stress wash away as she listened to the water lapping against the man-made walls, noticed two lovers sitting by the water having a moment, and was instantly refreshed.
Until she noticed Ole.
There he was, angrily brushing his jacket off as if the metro got it dirty. Her moment of happiness fell apart and her shoulders began to ache the tiniest bit. He then started brushing off a cement wall, preparing it for his royal ass. He’s the royal ass she thought to herself, then giggled a little. She tried to enjoy the view of the waterfront but her eyes kept resting back on Ole, who checked his watch a dozen times in the few moments she was up there.
She walked across to another view, one where she would not see her annoying lover. The sun was beginning to set and cast a shadow across the area, shadowing her in darkness for a brief moment. If Ole looked up he would have noticed her silhouette from below, but he just sat on the wall wondering how long she would be up there.
She looked around at the walkway where she stood and realized she was alone. She returned to a vantage point near the edge, one where she could see Ole again. Her hand slipped out of her pocket and shaped itself into a gun. She pointed it in his general direction, pretended to look through the sights, aimed and fired.
Photographs by the talented Kristin Brænne, whose work can be seen HERE.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged annoying lover, city view, couples, dating, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, friends, friendship, I want to kill my boyfriend, it's time to break up, life, love, Norway, Oslo, Oslo city view, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, romance, sad, terrible boyfriend, writing
Meeting God (if There is One)
I walked into the abandoned building on a routine assignment for photography class and halted, my chucks pushing a small pile of old candy wrappers and beer cans. I’d never seen anything like this place. Perhaps once, when I was in Notre Dame Cathedral when someone had left a window open and the sun shone through it in just the right way. But this was different.
That day in Paris, even though I didn’t believe in God, I couldn’t help but feel like He was trying to send me some sort of message. But that was in a church and it was nowhere near as beautiful as this antiquated, unused building that witnessed the ravages of time and disuse.
Yes, I was surrounded by garbage, an overflowing dumpster and all kinds of junk. The building was collapsing, and I hadn’t been charged a certain number of Euros or queued in an hour-long line to get in. The bright light wasn’t pouring in through a stained glass window that was in itself a work of art; here it spilled in via the surrendered ceiling in an abandoned building that probably should have been condemned years ago.
Part of the roof hung down by a girder. A breeze made it swing slightly and a creaking sound emitted from it, echoing off the emptiness. Rain had rusted the metal bars on the windows and the reddish-brown color spilled down the whitewashed walls of the what was probably an old warehouse. This was no Notre Dame, and yet it was more beautiful to me than anything I had ever witnessed before.
I snapped off a few shots and looked at the camera’s screen. The rays of sun bounced off the dusty air to create the illusion of substance. The light, so bright, washed out the image just a bit and created that feeling I had in my gut that, if there was a God, He was right there with me. Even the trash looked beautiful as it was washed with the bright illumination of our planet’s lightgiver.
I snapped off a few more shots and then the room dimmed a bit as a cluster of clouds must have passed overhead. My sigh reverberated through the room, hiding the creaking of the dangling ceiling, and as I walked out the echoed shuffling of my chucks followed.
Top photograph by Manon, whose blog can be found here.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged art, beauty, church, digital camera, digital photography, entertainment, fiction, finding god, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, God, life, nonsense of the truth, Notre Dame, Paris, people, photo, photograph, photography, photography class, photograpy assignment, photos, pictures, religion, writing
Waiting
She stood there, waiting, and she wasn’t even sure what for. One foot on the grill, one on the solid sidewalk, she watched people walk by. Not too many for that time of day. An oddity. She wondered where everyone was, where the few stragglers were going, what they were doing, what their futures held. An old cab drove by, an aged, antique model that she’d never seen in real life, only in the movies. The checkers on the side, bright yellow dimmed by time, the driver maybe even older than the car itself. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and for a second she felt as if she could see into his soul, his whole life of pain, torment, wars, soldiers, Nazis, pain, suffering, but also the love of a good woman, meeting her on leave, bringing her flowers, dates, love, family, children, grandchildren, one great-grandson and as quickly as he drove by and he broke eye contact the moment and the visions were gone. She tugged at the black sleeve of her cardigan and scraped the cement with her left boot tip, looked down into the grill and saw trash accumulated in the underground sewer. When she looked back up she was once again curiously alone on the street.
Photograph of Manon by the amazing Laura of Instant Flowers and Nonsense of the Truth. They are quite talented, please check out their work. They inspire me often.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged art, beauty, cabs, childhood, children, couples, entertainment, family, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, friends, friendship, kitsch, life, love, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, vintage, waiting, war, writing
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
In the Middle of Nowhere
The car was broken down, and while Jennie and I were sulking, Doris and Roy were sitting on a log chuckling to themselves, having a little picnic with the brown bag of goodies Doris had bought at the five and dime. She ate half the apple and then handed it over to Roy.
“I have another one if you want,” she said to me, and I just shook my head. I couldn’t understand how they were so calm. Roy’s car was busted and we hadn’t seen a car in the whole two hours since it broke down.
“Aren’t you guys worried we’re stuck here?” Jennie asked her.
“Nope,” Doris said with confidence. “Someone will come along soon, I’m sure.”
“That’s my girl!” Roy responded. “Always the optimist! Isn’t it beautiful here? I don’t miss the hustle and bustle of the city.”
I can’t believe I just heard Roy actually say that. In the fifteen years I’d known him he’d never been this relaxed. Or this happy.
“What will we do come nightfall?”
Doris smiled as she rooted through the bag to the bottom and pulled out a few pieces of penny candy and offered them around. Jennie took one and listening to her unwrap it was wearing on my nerves. “We could sleep in the car! Roy, you have blankets in the trunk, right? The ones we keep for emergency picnics?” He nodded as he pulled a toy pipe out of his pocket and started pouring bubbles into it. “Wait, you bought it?” she asked him.
“Yup.” At that he put it to his mouth and bubbles started to explode out of the plastic piece of junk.
“But it won’t come to that,” Doris added. “Someone will come.”
I couldn’t take this much longer. What would we do, huddle up in the car under a tiny blanket, shared by each couple? Doris and Roy were bananas if they thought I would get a good night of sleep in that jalopy that couldn’t even handle a simple drive to Cape May. Doris and Roy started whispering and giggling to each other in that loving way. The way they always do it.
Jennie came over and sat next to me. It wasn’t long before she started whispering to me, copying off of them.
“Aren’t they so cute?”
“Sure, sure. They’re cute, and they don’t seem to mind we might die out here.”
“Oh come on. Why don’t we whisper like that anymore?”
“Anymore?”
“Yes! We were just like them when we met.”
I thought back and had to agree, we probably were. But not as annoying. Just to shut her up and reached up and held the back of her hair a bit, pulling her in for a kiss. She smiled. I rose.
“Should I start foraging? Maybe there’s an apple tree or something nearby.”
Doris looked in my direction. “Everything will be fine, Raymond. You’ll see.”
At that I heard the backfire of a truck in the distance, and a tow truck came into view around the bend. Doris stood up and brushed some dirt and leaves off the back of her skirt and smiled at me.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged 1950s, 1960s, art, beauty, black and white, broken down car, cape may, city, couples, dating, entertainment, fiction, flash fiction, found photograph, friends, friendship, going to the beach for the day, humor, kitsch, life, love, people, photo, photograph, photos, picnic, pictures, relationships, retro, romance, stranded, vacation, vintage, vintage photograph
Goats Can Be Heroic, Too
“This is the part of the zoo where you can feed the animals,” mom told us as we walked to the cage. “Only feed them these pellets. Dennis, are you listening?”
My older brother had that smile at just the edges of his mouth, the one that meant trouble. Mom put a hand on each of his shoulders in an attempt to grab his attention. “Did you hear me?” His fake smile appeared and she fell for it. Again.
I was the good one. My brother was always causing my parents trouble, and I hated seeing my mom cry over his ridiculous antics. He always came home with unexplained bruises and cuts, or being chased by older, faster kids. My mom automatically defended him against upset neighbors, teachers, and officers. So I always tried to keep my nose clean. It just seemed fair. She worked so hard around the house, and my dad was always on emergency calls, being the town doctor.
After doling out half of the little pellets she got out of the penny machine to feed animals, she sat down on a nearby bench. It wasn’t even two seconds before Dennis ran out of the pellets, which of course he was throwing at a duck that was more interested in dodging them than eating them, before he came and wrenched my wrist to steal mine. Luckily I knew him well enough to expect this and had pocketed a few as soon as my mom handed them out.
“Hey!” was all I said. I turned to my mother, who heard my cry and looked up, so I just smiled and waved. It just wasn’t worth getting her upset. I turned my attention back to Dennis, who was easy to spot in the crowd considering he was wearing the same red and white-striped shirt as me. I carefully followed behind (he’d caught me following him once and I could still feel phantom bruises from that lesson) and watched as he pelted a little lamb with the rest of the food before he came upon the goat.
He approached the fence where this huge billy goat stood almost eye to eye with Dennis (if memory serves it had a few inches on him, but you know how memories become distorted) and Dennis instantly reached his hand through the large spaces between the wire and yanked the creature’s beard, pulling it closer. I could see from my vantage point that the goat’s eyes widened. I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to be pulling the animal’s fur. Dennis looked around for something to feed it but only discovered the lid to an aluminum can someone had thoughtlessly discarded from a packed lunch.
“Eat it!” Dennis said to the goat, who kept moving its mouth away from the garbage. “Come on! Goats eat trash, I know it. Eat the can!”
I’d watched Dennis bully people my whole life, including myself, and I couldn’t stand it. Even the boys bigger than him always took the worst of it in a fight. What chance did this goat have?
The goat opened its mouth to make a noise and Dennis’ quick reflexes had the lid in the poor creature’s mouth before a sound came out. The sides of the lid were sharp and may have cut the goat, I have no clue, but it made a screaming sound, lunged at Dennis’ hand and grabbed it between its teeth. Dennis screamed out “Mommy!” and of course she came running. I tried not to laugh when I realized my brother was crying, actually crying, and when my mom ran up and looked at his hand, she saw teeth marks.
“Oh Dennis, come on. Look at your hand! It didn’t even break the skin.”
He was sniffling and snot started running down his face. I never thought I’d see the day that anyone or anything would get the best of my older brother, the terror of our neighborhood.
“Billy,” my mother called to me. “We’re going to sit on the bench. Come find us when you’re ready to go.”
I nodded and reached into my pocket, pulling out the few pellets I’d saved from my brother. The goat backed away, but I used my best soothing voice and said “Come here, boy.” The goat approached and I reached my hand through the fence with the pellets in my hand and fed my new hero.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged 1940s, 1950s, beauty, bullies, childhood, children, dennis the menace, entertainment, family, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, funny, humor, kitsch, life, older brothers, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, sad, siblings, vintage, writing
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
Birdwatching on Bicycles in Bilborough
“Let the first trip of the Birds and Bicycles Club begin!” announced Randolph Harrison Thursby to his companions. They all clapped lightly yet with enthusiasm as one of them took a photograph to capture the moment. Rand bowed and waved a hand as the small group of seven mounted their rides and stood, waiting for him to climb aboard his 1955 Regency De Luxe Tourist, his pride and joy.
“Binoculars at the ready?” asked Ruby Merriweather, his best friend since they were children, equaling over twenty years of friendship. Many of her boyfriends over the years were a bit jealous of their relationship; so jealous, in fact that she had yet to marry.
The other members of the group nodded or grumbled accordingly, eager to move on.
Rand jumped to the pedals and gave a slight push forward, the strap of his binoculars across his chest, the binoculars bumping into his back lightly as he pedaled.
Ruby placed a packed lunch and her binoculars into the small basket on the front of her B.S.A. Keep Fit bicycle, a gift from Rand when it was brand new only two years ago, the same as his bicycle.
She pedaled hard to catch up to Rand as they left the others behind by a few meters.
“So what did you make in the packed lunch?” Rand asked, nodding towards her basket, taking a break from scanning the nearby trees along the path searching for birds.
“Fish and chips,” she replied with a laugh.
He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “Now I know that’s not true.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Because you know I don’t like fish. That’s how I know.”
“Oh Randolph, you know me too well.”
The others fell behind a bit as one of them, an elderly gentleman named William Williamson pointed towards a grove of trees and stopped his bicycle. In the distance the group let their bikes drop as they all peered through binoculars, except for William who used his Brownie 127 to capture an image of the fowl.
Rand and Ruby failed to notice as they were ahead of the group. When Ruby turned and realized they were alone, she broached a subject long on her mind but had to build up her courage to ask.
“Rand,” she shook a little as she asked. “Why is it, do you think, that neither of us ever married?”
“Well, you’re too choosy, let’s face it. I set you up with that fellow Edward, he was perfect! But you found flaws.”
She sighed. “And what about you?”
He continued scanning the sky and pedaling. “Dunno. Haven’t found the right bird, I guess.”
“It doesn’t seem that you try very hard.”
“Maybe not,” he said as he braked. “Look!” After gently placing his bike on its side he twisted his body so that the binoculars swung around from his back to his front and caught them in one smooth motion, holding them to his eyes. His finger moved the focus dial as he aimed at the top of a nearby tree. “I think…I think it’s a rare one!”
Ruby propped her bicycle on the kickstand and pulled out her viewers. Aiming in the same general direction as Rand she moved them around a bit and finally spotted the bird. She gasped.
“It’s a Black Redstart! So rare!”
“I knew it! Just remember, I spotted it first. Everyone!” he called to the others before realising they were all gone. “Where did they go?”
“They fell behind ages ago. Williamson spotted something and they stopped.”
“Drat! They’re going to miss this Redstart. They don’t hang around long. Have you ever seen one?”
“I don’t even know anyone who has, to be honest,” she replied.
They both watched the creature in silence. It hopped from one branch to a lower one and froze as it spotted them. They both felt as if it were looking directly at them as they savored the moment.
“Wow, Phoenicurus ochruros. What a magnificent creature.”
He smiled and looked at Ruby. “Absolutely beautiful.”
She looked at him and smiled and he failed to notice her cheeks become the tiniest bit red.
“What do you say we head up that path and try that lunch you’ve made us?”
They both turned to look at the bird, its little orange belly still facing them as it watched them a moment longer, cocked its head and took off, flying out of sight.
* * *
The bicycles in the story:
Special thanks to Tracy of this blog for mailing me the photograph all the way from London, England that inspired the story.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged 1950s, art, beauty, bicycle, bikeriding, Bilborough, binoculars, birds, birdwatching, Britain, camera, childhood, couples, dating, entertainment, family, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, friends, friendship, humor, kitsch, life, love, park, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, rare birds, relationships, romance, UK, vintage, vintage bicycles, writing
A Flash of Inspiration 