Category: Creative Non-Fiction

The Magic Rock

I meet many strange people who seem to gravitate toward me for some reason. Perhaps it’s because I have a friendly face and relaxed mannerisms. Perhaps I’m easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s an energy I give off. In any case, Portland has no small share of strange souls who happen to come into contact ...

The Jacket

I remember the morning very well. My wife (at the time) and I were house-sitting for an older couple in a bright and spacious home in Old Orchard Beach here in Maine. Before we left for the day to her parent’s house in Limington to celebrate the holidays with them, we each decided to give ...

The Fading Photo

The night before our wedding, I was surrounded by my brothers and by good friends I considered brothers. My heart was smiling like it had never smiled before. My face hurt from trying to keep up with my heart. You were at your sister’s and you had an early morning of wedding prep ahead of ...

The Silver Lining

Some have called me a ghost in the past. The way I walk about Portland, often when nobody else is around, reveling in the quiet streets and the old buildings. I certainly feel like a ghost at times. I moved down Congress Street, wearing a new coat and my leather gloves. The night was cold, ...

The Lobsterman

The rain was falling hard, and so I ducked into a dimly-lit bar. It’s the same bar where I stare into the painted face of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a face painted by the same man who is supposed to be my biological father. Longfellow’s white bearded visage hangs to my right on the far wall, ...

My Father’s Painting

*The image used is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow by Thomas Buchanan.   I’m sitting underneath a painting of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It’s a stately painting, and the man who created this work of art is the man who is supposed to be my biological father. Longfellow’s stern, bearded countenance is aimed down at me as I ...

Ghosts of Portland

This city has many ghosts. I’ve been called one myself, off and on, since I started walking the streets of Portland. Each cobblestone marred with gum and cigarette butts, each rooftop covered in bird shit, each wall covered in graffiti and hobo piss – they’re all markers for times come and gone, days passed. Down ...