I walked into the subway station and there she was, behind a pillar, crying hysterically. I mean tears running down her face, red eyes, and stumbling a little, which made me think she was drunk. Was she? Who knows.
Then I saw the broken pieces of glass shattered everywhere, with a pool of clear liquid surrounding them. The bottom of the bottle, still intact, rose from the liquidy shards like a miniature mountain. For once, the subway didn’t have that dank smell created from too many people shoved into an underground room.
Instead, it smelled of liquor. Purifying, clean liquor. It would have been a nice change if not for the tearful twenty-something sobbing without control.
I assumed she was drunk, hence the stumbling, but as I sat on the subway, I tried to put a better spin on it. Maybe the bottle was a gift for someone. Maybe it was an expensive gift, one she saved for, to impress a boyfriend, or girlfriend, or best friend or boss or lover or some other kind of person important to her life.
That kind of broke my heart, so instead I went back to my original thought. She was drunk, wanted to keep the party going, and would have to figure out another way to do so.
On a daily basis, Richard got behind the wheel of his car to go to the office, and also daily, he would reflect on his life and the wrong turns he made. She was gone. Long gone. But he still didn’t feel any better.
As he went through green lights turned yellow about to turn red, he wondered the chances of a truck running it and ending it all for him. He had not the guts to do it himself, so he hoped for a Mack Truck to finish him off. Richard lacked the patience for improvement in his happiness; little did he know it was just around the corner.
Years later, once his life was together and he had a wife, two children and a happiness he never knew existed, his wish would come true.
Flash fiction typed onto a vintage photograph using an antique typewriter. A collection of similar pieces is available here for Kindle and here for paperback.
Posted in flash fiction, Typography
Tagged 1930s, army, battle, death, flash fiction, life, murder, photography, sad, soldiers, typewriter, typography, vintage, war, war is murder
Another piece of flash fiction typed onto a vintage photograph using my antique typewriter. And of course, my shameless plug for the book.
Posted in Typography
Tagged 1930s, 1940s, art, beauty, couples, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, feminism, fiction, flash fiction, found photograph, love, photo, photograph, relationships, sad, typewriter, typography, vintage, woman, women, writing
I plopped on the orange couch, shocked that I had experienced heartbreak in Ikea, of all places. It started with a conversation about possible plates for our apartment and escalated into something much bigger. We couldn’t decide on a sofa, either. Or an ottoman. In the years we’d spent together it was always like this; we couldn’t agree on anything. A movie. A television show. Which park to hike in. I guess I should have seen it coming.
She exploded. She’d had enough. I wanted the white plate with the gray circle. She wanted the white one with the orange line. And now I find myself on an orange couch with no ride home to an apartment that was ours, but will probably just end up hers.
I couldn’t help but wonder if this were the first Ikea breakup over color choices or if this was a common occurrence. It probably happens a lot, considering the strong colors they tend to prefer. Maybe they come onto a loudspeaker and say something like “We have heartbreak over color choices in the Living Room section,” and someone brings the broken person a complimentary plate of Swedish Meatballs.
An Ikea worker in his blue and yellow outfit approaches me, but his hands are meatball-less and he continues right by and into the shortcut to the children’s section.
Photograph by the talented Kate Hiscock. Click the image for her Flickr.
Posted in flash fiction
Tagged breakups, color, couples, dating, dennis finocchiaro, emo, entertainment, fiction, flash fiction, funny, heartbreak, hipster, humor, Ikea, Ikea furniture, kate hiscock, kitsch, life, love, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, relationships, sad, sarcasm, satire
Rebecca stared at the empty post card, unsure of how to apologize for missing her parents’ fiftieth anniversary party. Her cousin would surely be there, and she just couldn’t deal with seeing him again after their encounter. It would be too painful. He would get that look of excitement on his face, she would see his smile, and they would end up down the same path that she’d already put an end to more than once.
She bought a Thanksgiving post card to combine both excuses in one shot; he would be going to that as well. She thought back to the first day when they were hiking to the top of the small Mount Glade to watch the famous sunset. Time was running out because she wasn’t in as good of shape as she’d thought and they needed to rush to make it. He beat her to the top and as she climbed the final rocks saw him with myriad colors in the background, holding out his hand to her, and she accepted it. Her hand stayed in his without either of them noticing until it was too late.
Thanksgiving was a enormous loss for her. Some of her best childhood memories were those of her father giving thanks before they all dug in. He always named each of his children on that list, and the rare attention from the patriarch always made her heart skip a beat. Of course, he was always thankful for the roof over their head, meals, and baseball games, but she sat anticipating hearing her name come from his lips. And now she would miss it.
As she started to scribble the kindest words she could muster for her parents, they flowed rather smoothly. She finished and looked at it, rereading every word and wondering why her hands were shaking. It was horrible to avoid her family because of a few mistakes, but she had no choice; seeing him again would start it all back up and it was all wrong. She read the letter once more and realized that it sounded more friendly than loving, but she had to send it as is. Thanksgiving was in two days and it she didn’t have time to go out and buy another card.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers
Tagged 1930s, 1940s, art, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, fiction, flash fiction, found art, found photograph, kitsch, life, love, people, relationships, sad, Thanksgiving, thanksgiving abroad, thanksgiving away from home, vintage
Typography on vintage photographs using an antique typewriter.
Posted in flash fiction, photos of strangers, Typography
Tagged 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, art, beauty, couples, dating, death, dennis finocchiaro, entertainment, fiction, flash fiction, found photograph, friends, kitsch, life, love, marriage, New Hampshire, people, photo, photograph, photography, photos, pictures, relationships, romance, romeo and juliet, sad, star crossed lovers, suicide, The Old Man, tristan and isolde, typewriter, typography, vintage