Tom Flynn's Writing In The Dark

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If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me

Funky strings and harmonicas in the north. Beach sun comfort in the south.

Early Morning Highway

Every move we make throughout our daily routines is a fleeting moment of living.

Lake Tear in the Clouds

The symbol of the strength of the Empire State in Albany, the building where Timmy works, was buried halfway down in thick river clouds.

Blue-eyed Baby Blues

Your eyes that bite, a mouth that sees,

On Mondays, I meet with Tom Flynn at the pub for dinner and drinks and to transcribe his handwritten thoughts that he has collected in notebooks over many years.

We call it "Writing in the Dark" because many of his notebooks were filled with nighttime scrawls.

He reads and I type as fast as I can to keep up, in the glow of our nifty hightop lamp the staff sets up special for our sessions.

At the end of his vignettes, Tom always says: "That's the end of that one. You ready?"

And so it goes: He reads, I type. "That's the end of that one. You ready?"

Sip beer. "Yep."

Read Editors' Notes

I remember when the snow was good for making snowballs. I tried making hand grenades and pretended I was in the army.

And throwing from my foxhole, in later years when I was actually able to deal with the real grenade, the first thing the sergeant yelled was, "Not like you learned on TV when you were a kid, but throw it like a baseball." The real deal did much more damage than my snow bombs.

See more of Tom's Art

I remember when the snow was good for making snowballs. I tried making hand grenades and pretended I was in the army.

Tom Flynn’s Writing in the Dark