• blog,  Creativity,  Pop Culture

    The Art of Finishing Things, A Meditation on Writing and the Paintings of Lia Porto

    There is no art in things left unfinished. There is no value in the incomplete. There is nothing meaningful in the unresolved. There are many things in the unfinished that can be admired: hope, inspiration, creativity, passion, indifference and ideas but not art. Art happens at the finish line. Art is where inspiration meets discipline, where passion meets fortitude, where creativity meets work. Art is when the work is complete and ready for an audience. It is when the artist reaches satisfaction, a place that is beyond exhaustion and knows there is no more work to be done. “I am finished.” I have no doubt there are many amazing words…

  • Fiction,  flash fiction

    He Wasn’t Prepared

    He was prepared for everything else, but not for this. He was prepared for hard work, for sacrifice, for long hours. He was prepared to do what’s right, what’s necessary, what no one else would do. He was prepared to go unnoticed, to get the blame, to go without. He was prepared for a fight, for war, for death. He was prepared to ignore the pain, work through the injuries. He was prepared to never understand why. But, he wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the softness, like a faint perfume stirring him awake. He wasn’t prepared for this racing heart when he heard her voice. He wasn’t…

  • Fiction,  flash fiction

    Nothing is Missing

    I didn’t miss him. I was busy, he was busy. Life rolled on. I didn’t miss him in my heart or my throat or my gut or in my head the way I missed him before. Everything was normal. Time passed as expected.  Not missing him made me wonder; do I even need him anymore? Did I ever? When I thought of him, which was often, but out of habit, I pondered this lack of missing, this lack of sadness. Maybe he will quietly slip away and I will not notice. Things change. People grow apart. Maybe that is what this is. I thought of all the people I once loved…

  • Fiction,  flash fiction

    We Are Trying to Be Good

    Tonight he came to my house after work. He took his dirty work boots off and placed them neatly next to the back door. He sat at my kitchen table in his socks and drank a glass of water. I offered to make him dinner but he said no. I should have made him dinner. He was some kind of hungry and the only thing I could give offer him was food. “Janine finally paid me for the work I did on her stable last year. They settled her lawsuit and all that money came in that she was always talking about.” “That’s great.” I said. “Richard’s daughter had her…