This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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I had a conversation with you yesterday. I know, I know, it’s not fair to hold you to something you don’t remember–but I did. I promise. You were sitting in your chair, and I in mine. You looked up at me from your magazine (or newspaper, was it?) and said, “I do declare!”
“What is it that you might declare?”, I declared back in your direction.
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I live across the street from this. I. Can. Not. Wait.
Over four years ago Elizabeth and Aaron Ultimo were laying plans to move from their beloved community in Arlington VA/Washington DC back to Philadelphia PA where Aaron had gone to college years before. It was a move that was inspired by the idea of helping lead the coffee revival in that city. As they poured over the different neighborhoods that inspired their curiosity they settled on a few that sounded like they would be perfect for their plans. One was the quickly growing neighborhood of Fishtown. The other was equally rapidly developing Graduate Hospital. After weighing the two very different neighborhoods and visiting both they fell in love with the charm and beauty of the latter. However, upon moving to Philadelphia opportunity took them to a different neighborhood to which they became very attached. Ultimo Coffee Newbold was born. It was their baby, their firstborn and it flourished beyond expectations…
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This weeks’s WordPress “Photo Challenge“theme is “Everyday Life”. The challenge is to find and create beauty from people doing the most everyday things in their lives. I’ve chosen–not one, but–two (!) pictures for this week.
The first picture above (be sure to click it to view it full-size) is of one of my very best friends during a trip she made to Philadelphia a few years ago. This is one of those friends that you immediately connect with and can go years without talking to, and yet can pick up right where you left off when you see each other again.
She had visited Philly and I had just finished showing her and a couple of our friends the campus of my seminary. We then went to a local pizza shop called “The Pizza Box” that us seminarians would frequent between classes.
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[Updated below]
[Update II: I have a companion post up about why I’m not voting for Obama either.]
I’ve got to admit it. The Convention knocked me off of my game. For a brief few days, I was being wooed by the scripted politi-fest of the Republican National Convention. I ended up listening to Paul Ryan’s speech live on the radio (on NPR, no less!) after a long day at work, and for some reason, I really resonated with it.
I started thinking, “Hey, I know they are jerks, and immature, and arrogant, and reactionary, and obstructionist, but I could maybe sort of think about thinking about thinking about voting for these guys!” (Clint Eastwood notwithstanding.)
But then a few things happened. First, this 8-minute dismantling of the Republican National Convention (and the GOP generally) by Jon Stewart. Brilliant. (If these Hulu clips ever expire, you can find the clips at the Daily Show website at the alternative links below.)
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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Travis woke up. The world was sideways. He wasn’t used to seeing things this way, and it startled him greatly. He eventually realized that he was lying on his side–a position he was not used to. Struggling under his massive weight, he eventually stood himself up (but not without some damage).
Looking around, he saw his brothers and sister and mother and father all on the ground as well. The wind must have knocked them all down at once. He thought to himself, “This might be my chance to finally get away; to see the world and do what I want. I’ll find a new home for my roots” So he set off.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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As usual, I wake up three minutes before my alarm goes off. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, noticing for the first time a crack in the paint above our bed. I wonder how long it would take for the crack to grow enough that a chip of paint would fall in my mouth as I slept. I recall that vague idea we all hear growing up about the average human eating such-and-such number of spiders in their lifetime, and the only conclusions us laypersons ever arrived at to explain this is that they must crawl into our mouths while we slept. This is disconcerting to some, but I’ve never really found much of a problem with it. We let so many other things inside of us, “spiders” is perhaps the least illogical of them all. Hot water strained through the ground, dried, and roasted seeds of an otherwise tasty berry? Omelets made with what are more or less the products of daily chicken periods? The squashed and processed remains of a peanut and a grape spread on dry-heated, germ-infused, ground-up wheat plants? Gummi Bears? Wives?
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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I come from a long and distinguished line of men committed to defending this great nation from whatever attacks may befall it. This has been an honor and privilege for my family’s name for many years, even though it has brought it’s fair share of heartbreak to us.
For several generations now, my family has heralded from New York City and it’s surrounding areas. Nearly a hundred years ago now, my great-grandfather, Frank Crawford, fought in the Wars both in Korea and Vietnam: two of the greatest military victories our undefeated nation has ever seen. In both conflicts, my great-grandfather witnessed the violence and atrocities that were perpetrated against our forces with such cavalier brutality that it threatened to break our will. But, as is true of the American Spirit, we persevered to victory. And this was in spite of all of the proto-terrorist uprisings happening all over the nation on college campuses.
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Yesterday, I got the chance to see the unofficial opening ceremony for Philadelphia’s annual Live Arts Festival and Philly Fringe. The piece is called Le Grand Continental, and it was a large, 155-person, half-hour-long group dance, choreographed by Sylvain Émard Danse and performed on the front “Rocky” steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It was phenomenal (the Inquirer had a great review of it as well).
The piece explored the themes of unity, life, discord, speaking out, disillusionment and youthfulness. It had dancers from nearly every imaginable age group, ethnicity, and income level (including, I could swear, Black Thought, the lead MC of The Roots–but I could be wrong). It was amazing seeing such diversity move in concert with one another.
But, either way, the piece has been done and if you haven’t seen it then you’ve missed it, so my main purpose here is not to rub that in, but instead to promote the Live Arts Festival that this piece sort of kicked off.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here. Today’s story is based on the first part of my favorite short story, Anton Chekhov‘s “The Lady with the Little Dog“. It’s a retelling from the woman’s perspective, trying to capture Chekhov’s tone and style.
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I
Anna Sergeevna knew not whether to wear the beret again this day, as the dust and sun of Yalta were beginning to change its color. She looked at herself in the mirror that so many had peered in before and would thereafter. It had been hers for the past five days. What all had this mirror seen? What lovers had found themselves stealing a glance at the Other in this room; not at a person, but a reflection mediated by polished glass, preventing them from seeing the truest contours of human flesh. Anna scolded herself. Now was not the time for such sentimentalities. She decided to wear the beret. Putting it on reminded her of her husband’s feeblest attempts to cover his own shiny zenith that burned so easily. He was so self-conscious about it. But why? Not for what she may think about it–that much was certain. It was for all of them–all those that could provide medals, accolades, and honor. She realized then that this was the purpose behind his fortuitous side-whiskers: compensation. She believed his lack of hair made him distinguished-looking in certain lights; at certain, ephemeral moments where he may have said the right thing or noticed a different shade of rouge she had picked up on a whim. He was a lackey. These moments were few.
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Last week, I introduced a new weekend feature on the blog where I post a picture of mine and talk about it as a part of WordPress’s weekly “Photo Challenge” (see the bottom of this post for more information).
This week’s theme is “Near & Far“. The challenge is to use perspective to create a three-dimensional space in your two-dimensional photo and “literally suck in the viewer”. So’ I’ve chosen the above picture.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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Jim:
“Well, uh, do you think that . . .
you might . . .
want to . . . maybe . . .
go on a date with me?”
Helen:
“Really? Yes!
I’ve been waiting so long
for you to ask!”
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Consider this post the official unveiling of my Philadelphia Photo blog:
The Daily Philly: a picture of philly. daily. (almost)
(also on Facebook, Twitter, & Google+)
The Story
I love photography. My dad was a professional photographer for most of my life, photographing my soccer teams and conducting annual Christmas portraits with my brother and me. He’s taught photography at Community Colleges and passed down much of what he knew to me. (I’ve even started doing a personal weekend photo photo challenge on this blog)
I also love Philadelphia. It’s culture, history, feel, and rhythm speak to me in such a real and deep way. It’s big enough that it’s a “real” city: it has art, culture, museums, great food, history, business, urban politics, and even nature (yes, it does!). But, it’s a manageable city. A friend once called it “a city with training wheels”. You can walk from one end of downtown to the other in less than an hour.
So, I brought these two things together into a little web experiment.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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As I was walking down the crowded downtown street, I noticed a woman walking the opposite way, walking toward me. She was stunning. Long black-brown hair framed a clear face with a touch of rouge; the face contained two deep and dark eyes, ornamented with the perfect accents of eyeliner and shadow. Tall and slender, she walked with a poise and confidence that could do nothing but draw one’s eye. The cool of the coming Fall brought forth her seasonally-appropriate dark colors, layered clothes, and charming violet shawl.
My gaze was immediately arrested and mercilessly held without bond, tortured for the information I had no words to say. I had only thoughts. Only sensations. Only slight, but deep, sensual perceptions rising to an unfulfilling place of fleeting desire and longing. I felt the invitation to come, tempered only by the canyon of anonymity between us.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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Yes, I am.
What?
I am.
Who?
Karen. From the office.
How long?
To what degree?
“To what degree?” What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I mean, “How long since what?” Since it became physical? Since we started talking? Since the idea popped in my head? Since I contemplated opening myself up to the possibility in the first place? To what degree are you referring when you ask me “how long”?
Why are you talking so calmly about this?
Because we’re adults.
No, “we” are not.
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This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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It’s not until you’re laying there that you realize how different reality is from the movies–especially in this case.
That moment exposes the assumptions you had about how this sort of thing would happen, and the various details and nuances of those assumptions are really affected by the cultural influences you take in.
The biggest difference? For me, at least, it was the sound. Or rather, to be more specific, the lack of it.
Music. Squeal. Cursing. Bending of metal. Breaking of glass. Breaking of branches. Landing of body.
And then, silence.
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the long way home 