I'm a writer by trade and also by heart. When I'm not banishing lorem ipsum for freelance clients, I'm writing for pleasure. Or, rather, necessity. Anais Nin explains why best:
We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.
WordsI wrote Twit Whipped for the 2009 writing contest, sponsored by Bukowski's Tavern in Boston and Harpoon Brewery. The caveat was that the story had to be no longer than 750 words and contain 4 important words: pint, pen, Bukowski and Harpoon. 
Flash Fiction: Father Ireland
With a wry grin, the bartender’s weather-worn knuckles usher the dark pint across the handcrafted bar, etched with tales of the thousands who sailed toward opportunity. My eyes, emerald as the pastoral playground a stone’s throw from the pub’s threshold, search the old man’s face for a sign that he, finally, recognizes the irony of a prodigal return to a land never abandoned. I take a long pull of beer before my tongue has the chance to deceive itself by calling out a name I’ve never once uttered. But he knows; he’s not halfway down the bar with a tattered rag before he turns back. He mouth pushes down hard one corner to form an awkward upside-down comma. Our eyes, mirrors, pass over each other as the intruding fog shrouds the city. I look away to watch it creep in. For a moment, my thumb searched for the small imprint of a lost band that’s scarred my left hand’s finger. “’Nother?” Apparently, I have emptied my pint. I nod. And then, just as I think I can’t possibly find my voice, I speak—softly, like I’m meters away from the stool and huddled in the corner against the Celtic motif that runs alongside the pub’s frame. I think about knotworks, about anger twisted inside your stomach like a fist. Love’s held open only to those you trust infinitely. But, is there ever anyone you trust enough to crack you open to hollow out a crawlspace? Even still—and perhaps quite frightfully—I’ve never known how love, or the lack thereof, prevails across ocean’s time. Mother, if she were here, would tell me the story again. The fairytale. But she’s gone, and all that’s left are my questions, now hanging around my neck in Albatrosian fashion. Oh, yes, another beer; please, old man. I’ve come so far to turn back now. | PicturesWorth thousands of words, pictures always, in my opinion, capture a moment, a life artifact, as importantly as any poem or story can. That's why, in my spare time, I seek photo opportunities as creative outlet. When you look at the world through a lens, your entire perspective changes.             | ||
