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"Snapshot" (the seventy-sixth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Snapshot" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Dec 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Snapshot By Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org (Entry #13) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "So whose idea was it to have the
reunion down beside the lake?" Justin asked the question in a voice that had
changed little in the ten years he had been away. Warm under the midday sun, he
opened another beer and stuck the ring pull down into the sand. Looking round
the dozen or so old classmates spread out on towels and rugs he saw the years
since school had been kind to some. Others looked uncomfortable and out of
place in swimwear. Not yet thirty, they had already joined the ranks of those
who should have the sense to know they looked better with all their clothes on.
One still well-proportioned girl threw him a paper cup. "It was me," said Mary. "I thought it was time to take our clothes off and just have some fun again." She started to sing 'Just in Time.' The words didn't come out quite right, which seemed to have something to do with several empty beer cans that lay beside her. "Don't give up the day job Mary. We can't all be stars like my old buddy Justin," said Patrick moving over to put an arm round his old buddy's shoulder. A few eyebrows were raised by those who remembered how Justin used to treat Patrick in the old days. But that was then and this was now. Patrick had put on weight and not all fat either and he no longer looked like he could be pushed around. What's more, Justin didn't look at all threatening with his thick prescription sunglasses and long scarf, which he was still wearing even with swimwear. Mary saw a photo opportunity. "Our Celebrity Designer and our Celebrity Photographer I've got to get that," she said taking out her camera. She took snapshots of the others too. "Okay you can stop holding your tummies in now," said Mary, for most really had been holding them in. Everyone settled down to exchanging stories in the small groups and cliques so easily remembered from their school days. Patrick stuck close to Justin and pressed him about his new celebrity status. Justin was happy to tell. "Celebrity has a currency of its own. Once you can get enough TV exposure, people recognize you. They tell their friends they've met you. You get paid to open things. The easy money is from endorsing products. Folks like to see a well known face in the advert or on the packaging, someone they think they can trust. Celebrity is an occupation in its own right. It's a profession just like being a lawyer or a doctor. I've got to work hard at my image. I don't ever go out without the long scarf and the dark glasses. My image is my trademark. But didn't I hear Mary say you're a celebrity now too?" Patrick didn't answer. He just nodded towards Mary who was now deep in conversation with one of the other girls and gestured knowingly with his beer can. It was then that someone shouted, "Time for beef burgers and Pepsi just like the old days." They all made a move except Justin who drew some loud and unkind comments when he asked to be excused claiming he was vegetarian now. "That's okay," said Patrick. "I'll stay with Justin and talk about the good old days and we can keep an eye on the things." They watched the others make their noisy way along the path beside the water. Even when they were out of sight they could still be heard for a while in the still quiet of the lakeside for there were few other people around. After some stories and a few more beers, Patrick sat up straight and pointed. "I can see Mary's camera. It's a proper one, with film. Not a digital. Her father has a camera shop and does the prints for her." Looking around and seeing no one was near, he went over, made a few adjustments and passed the camera to Justin indicating that he should take a picture. "I wonder what her father will make of this one," he said with a wicked grin as he turned his back to the camera, slipped his pants off, bent over and grinned at the lens now seen upside down between his legs. "Now you," he said. "Quickly before anyone sees us." Patrick carefully put Mary's camera back where it had been but now with wild photos of her two old school pals. They were still laughing when the others returned but refused to say why. After a while everyone ran out of stories, the conversation started to fade, someone said it was getting too cold to hang around in swimwear, and it was time to get dressed and go. Remembering how much beer they had put away, Justin and a few others called a taxi. As they waited, Patrick got onto a shiny new Harley Davidson and Justin was surprised to see Mary climb onto the pillion. They waved as they roared off, shouting and laughing. "Patrick and Mary?" said Justin. "Oh, you have been away a long time Justin," said one of the others. "Nice bike," said Justin. "But he shouldn't be driving." "It's okay. I saw the cans. It's was low alcohol stuff they were on. "Sure looks like he's doing well. Someone said Patrick was a Celebrity Photographer," said Justin. "Well that's a nice way of putting it. Everyone round here just calls him Paparazzi Pat." |
| Snapshot By Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #11) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| The two men stood in the headlights
of the rusted Ford pickup. To their west loomed the mountains. Silhouetted
against the cold blue sky of twilight, their sharp-edged, treeless peaks, like
enormous dinosaur teeth, jutted up suddenly from the desert floor. "If you stand here and look out that way towards Carrizozo. most nights you can see 'em. Bright streaks of light coming down outta the sky. Appearing all of a sudden like. Almost as if they came out of nowhere. Here, I have a picture. See?" The old man handed McAlester a snapshot. He put on his reading glasses and looked it over, tilting it first one way and then another, trying to find the best angle for viewing it in the harsh glare of the headlights. It appeared to show several men standing in line at the foot of a ramp. A blurry metallic object – presumably a craft of some sort – was hovering above them. "This is a Polaroid," McAlester remarked. "Is that a problem?" "No. No, not at all." "Yeah, the Agency gives them to me. Every month a new camera comes by parcel post along with a check. They tell me it's my job, to take the pictures, to keep a file. I guess that means I work for the government, huh? Imagine that, will ya." "Yeah, imagine …" McAlester's voice trailed off into the cold night air. He was engrossed in the picture, only half listening to the old man. The Polaroid had taken him by surprise. He hadn't been expecting that. Twenty years of investigating sightings and this was the first time anyone had tried to pass off a Polaroid. A dozen years ago it was all darkroom tricks – double exposures, homemade models, things like that - pretty easy to spot for the most part, especially if you could get hold of the negative. Nowadays it seemed everybody and his brother had a digital camera and access to computer software tricks and gimmicks that could have you believing your own mother was an alien. But a Polaroid? A step backward in technology? It made no sense. "What was that you said about a file? You mean you have a file of pictures like this?" "More of a log really. You know, date, time, number of landings observed. That sort of thing. Been keepin' it since the fifties. Real religious like, never miss a day." "And pictures? Do you have any more like this one in that file of yours?" "Nah, not right now I don't. Just what you got in your hand there, that's all. Y'see, every couple weeks or so an agent comes by and takes what I got. Real official like. Shows me his badge, gives me a signed receipt. Even goes so far as to thank me for my service to my country and all like that. Says how proud he is of the job I'm doing. Like I said, real official like, these agents." The old man liked to talk, to build up his own importance. McAlester had met his kind before, and the old guy fit the mold perfectly. Government agents, parcel post shipments, service to his country. In another minute or two, he'd probably start spinning some yarn about being abducted by little green men. Still, there was that damned Polaroid. It looked legitimate enough, but it was hard to judge out here. McAlester needed to get that picture back to the lab and see how it would hold up under some serious scientific scrutiny. "So where was it exactly that you were standing when you took this picture?" "Oh, I was right up by 'em. Right just this side of the fence there, by their base." "By their base, huh? And they let you do that? They let you get that close?" "They're not unfriendly." "Really?" "Listen, I'd be glad to take you on out there if'n you'd like. See for yourself if you don't believe me." After twenty years of interviewing individuals who claimed to have had contact with visitors from outer space, this was the first time anyone had ever offered McAlester the chance to meet one in person. It was the break of a lifetime, the story of the century. A picture was one thing – even a Polaroid with no obvious way to doctor the image – but it was still second hand evidence at best. However, to actually interview a space alien in person – simply put, it was why McAlester went in to journalism in the first place. He immediately accepted the old man's offer, and the two of them began the drive out across the desert toward the foothills and history. If there was a road that led to where they were going, the old man didn't bother to take it. He aimed the truck toward a faint blue glow at the base of one of the mountains in the distance and stepped on the gas. The pickup rattled through the darkness, squeaking and groaning as it bounced across the rough terrain. Then, almost as if they had entered another world, the truck cleared a rise and the base suddenly appeared below them. Two stanchions of lights, about sixty feet in height and connected by thick black cables to a huge power generator, illuminated the area. The lights were set up on either side of a spindle-arm cherry picker with a universal joint. The lights were focused on the metallic craft-like object that McAlester recognized from the snapshot the old man had shown him. Outside of the lighted zone were several Airstream trailers and a score of workmen. Some of the workmen were dressed in jeans and windbreakers and others wore military uniforms and carried rifles. They were all gathered around a canteen truck and appeared to be eating sandwiches and drinking hot, steaming coffee. McAlester turned to the old man sitting beside him. "It's a movie set! You dragged me all the way out here to look at a dumb-ass movie set, you stupid Okie. Look, don't say nothing, okay. Just turn around and take me back into town." "Well, if'n that's what you want, but I'd a thought - " "Please, don't think. Just drive. And here, you can have your picture back, too." McAlester yanked the snapshot out of his pocket and tossed it in the direction of the old man. "After all, we wouldn't want the agency to reduce your salary because you didn't turn in your quota of pictures this month, now would we?" The old man turned the truck around and drove east back across the desert toward town. On the movie set the director emerged from his cocoon and slithered up the cherry-picker to his seat next to the cameraman. "Places, everyone!" he shouted, cupping a slimy green three-fingered hand to his mouth. The workers and the actors hurried back to their spots. When they were all ready to resume filming a second little green creature waddled in front of the camera holding a clapperboard. "Travelogue: Journey to Earth. Scene 53, Take 3," he said and brought the two clapsticks together. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #14 Second place (tie): #2 and #4 Fourth place (tie): #7 and #11 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Snapshot orangeskys_yellowmoons@yahoo.co.uk |
#1 of 14 |
| 572 words | |
| The night unfolded its cape across the heavens and laid
out its jewels for all to see. Mary looked up at the stars and a faint longing
caressed her heart. How many beautiful stars, how far away! Each one shining
brilliantly, twinkling their unbounded pleasure. The sound of the water beating
softly against the shore spoke to the rhythmic beating of Mary’s heart.
The deep tribal passions of her soul urging her to go forward, run, jump and
drown herself in the deep Mediterranean ocean. The air was warm and sweet with
the smell of flowers and blew gently across the beach causing Mary’s hair
to ruffle, first to this side, then to that. Mary was a picture to behold in
her orange and red dress. Her skin was also a dark orangey colour and her hair
a deep brown. The dress fluttered in the wind, provoking, tantalising, and
freeing Mary’s thighs from its bondage. Mary walked along the shore, her
bare feet leaving dainty footprints in the soft wet sand. Jason peered through
the view finder at his beloved. A faint longing in his own heart. Mary reached the edge of the sea and wriggled her toes in its cool and refreshing water. The feel of the sand in between her toes making her giggle. “Oh moon, how I wish I was you!” she laughed and laughed and laughed. Jason remembered their first date, they had eaten at the pink elephant, and then they had taken a long, midnight stroll down this very beach. The wind had been stronger and colder and he had wrapped his arms around her and stolen a kiss underneath the frozen stars. She had leant into him, smelling his aftershave and stroking his stubble with her soft, white hands. That had been three years ago. They were now engaged. Much had changed. Much had changed. Mary, tired of playing in the shallow lapping of the ocean waded further in, her dress clinging to her as the ocean first wet it, then moved away, then wet it again. Jason felt the familiar tug of his urge to protect. Mary was a free spirit in every sense of the word and Jason found himself always feeling uneasy at her impulsive and sometimes dangerous ideas. Still he sat in the shadows of the great tree at the end of the beach and watched his gorgeous wife to-be through the view finder. As he watched her return from the ocean, now completely wet, he took a mental snapshot. This is how he would always remember her. Just then he heard soft footsteps on the pavement leading up to the beach. This is what he had been waiting for. He steadied the view finder and concentrated his gaze. He saw his fiancés face light up in a smile. A smile not for him. He steadied his hand and pulled the trigger. There was a low whoomph as he watched his fiancé crumple in on her self, a red starfish decorating her chest, like a badge of honour. The man cried out in surprise and ran to her. Jason watched him in his view finder, eager to pull the trigger, but no, it was her he loved. It was her to be the last image in his brain as he pulled out the smaller handgun from his pocket and took his own life. It was her. It was always her. |
|
| Snapshot kstaley@gmail.com |
#2 of 14 |
| 64 words | |
|
Canada geese arrived at sunset breaking their rigid wedges with a raucous fall to water’s edge A flutter and flap of dappled grey and white driven south by Nature’s cold fury greeting those already on the river like old friends come home. He circles one lone gander his mournful wail annoying this raft and that flock desperately seeking his life’s mate shot to grace a hunter’s dinner table his plaintive cry swallowed unanswered into obscurity by cold November’s rain |
|
| Snapshot glenlee10@sky.com |
#3 of 14 |
| 121 words | |
| Standing alone on a leaf-speckled lawn, erect, straight as though ruled, and clad in a green-khaki coat, ageing to brown; topped by a silvered head, each separate strand glinting, reflecting light that seeps from a pearl-grey, just-washed sky. Like an old soldier would stand, proud before the Cenotaph, having resisted the storms of a European war, the dandelion’s withstood the November gales, a salute to the fallen. It reminds me, of a formal photograph, sepia’d now, of Granddad in khaki; his fair hair cut short, regulation, and his collar high and tight. Over his battledress jacket, the belt around his slim, young man’s waist bore a buckle, which sits in the dark in Grandma’s drawer. Granddad didn’t return from the Great War; never stood with his comrades at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Unlike the dandelion, he was one of the fallen. |
|
| Snapshot sambpoet@yahoo.com |
#4 of 14 |
| 143 words | |
| I used to think sometimes your eyes would blink, your lips in that photo would tremble slightly. I would stare hard and long, waiting for miracles, for you to lift your arm and wave your hand at me. In dusky light, in morning sun, I stared away, pretending life had never changed and death had failed to conquer you. I told myself you had found a place to hide far from Death’s wrath. I told myself to keep the faith. You would return, absent yourself from the spring scene of that photo, abandon trees and sidewalk, suddenly come back to who you were to me, father and friend, not a snapshot anymore, not old snapshot memories poured into this broken heart, not a one-dimensional facsimile, dear Father, but flesh and bone. |
|
| Snapshot Ruby Astari author81@gmail.com |
#5 of 14 |
| 1521 words | |
| I'm never bored staring at your snapshot. I've placed
it on the wall of my room with sticky tapes. It's by my bed --- on the same
level as my head where I lay. Every night, I lie down on my side while staring
at your photo --- until sleep takes over my conscience. I love seeing you there. You were smiling brightly, with perfectly straight, white teeth. It was your most spontaneous and sincere smile. I knew you'd never really liked having your pictures taken. I could see from the old photographs of you. You'd barely smiled. Your expression had been rather stiff, as if afraid of facing a gun instead of a camera. I remembered that my comment (which had been intended as just a dumb joke) had somehow offended you. We weren't speaking to each other until I finally apologized and you'd forgiven me. Fortunately, we could never have stayed mad at each other for too long. You'd always been the humorous and forgiving kind. I'd always been grateful by those two qualities in you. Honestly, I'd even wanted to be just like you. Sometimes I got so tired of being feisty and shrilly when I was angry. Besides being noisy and giving people headaches, I might've scared a lot of them. Yes, your calmness and maturity had been able to conquer my explosive temper. With you, I'd always been (compelled to remain) calm. The point is, you'd made me want to be better. Do you know something? My roommate here often bugs me. She loves laughing at my nightly habit. She thinks I'm being silly and pathetic. But I don't care. She can never understand. They're all just the same. This is the only way I can see you. I have no other choice... Click! "Hey!" you protested in surprise. That afternoon, your laughter suddenly stopped as I snapped a shot at you. Even so, an amused grin spread across your face. I gave you my devilish grin in return. "That rare smile of yours deserves documentation." "You're crazy," you exclaimed, laughing again. God, I'd always loved hearing that. "I'm not photogenic." "That's why you don't need to strike a pose. Being spontaneous is the main key for anyone to look attractive --- just the way they are." I smiled and winked at you. I put my ancient Nikon camera on my lap. Although I also had a more practical cell phone camera in my jeans' pocket, I preferred using the old-fashioned one for certain scenes. I couldn't even tell why. "Just like you?" Your big, brown eyes were warm, radiating solace that slowly seeped into my soul. "Maybe." I just shrugged, pretending not to care despite my embarrassment. I felt the familiar warmth in my cheeks. Yeah, you knew I have the same problem. I'm barely photogenic myself. My smile still often looks stiff and scary. I guess some things aren't supposed to be forced. It was later proven by your opinion (which had finally come out as brutally honest after I'd forced you to give me, with a promise that I'd never have been easily offended like most women's common reaction.) When I'd showed you several of the old pictures of me, you'd picked one as the best. What was your reason? "Your laughter seems spontaneous, without burden. Sweet." Yes, since then, I believe that only snapshots that can make people who feel not so photogenic like us look great. When I'd told you that one of my friends had taken that while I'd been distracted, your eyes had widened in awe. "Nice snapshot." Your laughter snapped me back from the past. Oh, it embarrassed me more. "You look seriously cute when you're blushing like that!" You quickly grabbed my camera. "Now it's my turn." "Aaargh, nooo!" I screamed in panic, looking away and lifting my arms for protection. Click! Damn it. Now there was my most spontaneous...yet also ugliest snapshot. You laughed again. Crazy! Suddenly, Aqualung's "Brighter Than Sunshine" was playing on your cell phone. You quickly checked its screen and returned my camera. I noticed your sweet smile. Your eyes resembled the calmness of an undisturbed lake, typical for a man in love. "It's her." I smiled and understood. I let you move away a little as you talked to her. Relax, I'd never be eavesdropping on your conversation. You knew me. Although this might've sounded cliché and tad hypocrite, I was a happy girl seeing her best friend in bliss. I had no right to feel jealous of her existence in your life. After talking to her, you smiled at me. "Reva, I've got to go." "Have fun." I gave your big arm a light punch, smiling back and winking at you again. Then, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "She's so lucky to have you...Sam." Aww, that smile again. "Thanks, but she's actually the one to make me feel like the luckiest man in the world. Laters." "Bye." Oh, if only it had been true. For you, I'd have convinced myself that what I'd seen --- although accidentally --- in her was wrong and only in my own imagination. Yes, I was also a secretly grieving and angry girl because of that. I knew what she'd done behind your back. I'd caught her with another man more than once. She'd literally begged me not to tell you. She'd even apologized and sworn not to do that again. I knew that --- as a best friend --- I should've told you. Even though it was actually none of my god damned business, I'd still had to be honest. But, did I have the heart to wipe that happy smile off your face, every time you told me about her? I swear, I could only beg her not to hurt you again. You loved her very much. That was what I'd always reminded her. This morning, I woke up to find one annoying problem. Damn it! Who had the nerve to take your photo off the wall? That afternoon, I saw my roommate among the other residents in the garden. She was showing me your photo, with an obviously mocking grin. Furiously, I came over to her. I tried to snatch it off her hand, but she quickly backed off and giggled. Bitch! "Give it back!" I yelled. "It's mine. Give me that!" "Take this if you can..." I lunged at her really hard, your photo thrown off of her grip. I didn't care that she was screaming in pain as I kept slamming her against the ground --- over and over. Instantly, the garden was filled with screams of terror, mixed with chilling cries and menacing laughter. There were also mean-spirited roars, incessantly loud thumping on the tables, and the breaking of the glass. Then, I didn't know why my roommate's face suddenly turned into the face of someone I forever hate the most... "Va, patience, Va..." I'd heard that twice. The first time was when I'd had to watch them cover your face with white cloth. Your cut wrists had been bleeding too much. It was too late, they'd said. I had to let you go. So you'd finally found out. I'm sorry... It was all because of her. She'd even had the nerve to show up at your funeral with her fake, apologetic expression. What a hypocrite and a cheap slut! I hated her. It shouldn't have been you... At that time, the very last things I remembered were her broken and bloody face --- and the hands trying to break my grip around her neck... Yes, more or less like robust figures in white who had finally dragged me away from my roommate. She was luckier, because she could still grab a nurse's arm in fear. She was now bawling like a little girl snitching to her mother. Meanwhile, I was struggling a lot as they forcefully put a straight-jacket on me. I kicked a man's jaw as he tried grabbing my feet. "Easy, Reva. Calm down!" Then, they finally locked me up alone in a dark, isolation room --- with its soft walls and floor like mattresses surrounding me. There was only little light coming in from under the door and the tiny window on the door. Furiously, I got up and began kicking on the door. "My photo!" I demanded loudly. I didn't even care that my feet hurt and the whole ward would go deaf with my shouting. "I want my photo back!!" One of the figures in white glared at me through the small window. Then...swoosh! Your photo was smoothly pushed in through the gap under the door. Using one foot, I pushed it to where the light shone on. Feeling terribly exhausted, I sat down and tried to regain the control of my breath. I gazed at your photo again, your sweet smile I'd forever miss. I couldn't tell why my rage slowly died down. I began to smile again. Yes, they'll never understand. Only you can make me feel this calm. Too bad, I can never see you again. All I have is your snapshot... |
|
| Snapshot Roger Haller www.cowboylogic.net |
#6 of 14 |
| 1681 words | |
| The attic was cold; insulation from the thirties seemed
ample to keep the house heat from the breezy cavern framed in aged wood
rafters. Ben noted the white scale on the galvanized roof nails. The roof was
at least updated. Since his mother died, he had put this job off for as long as he could, but the natives were restless. His siblings wanted to assess the junk for memories of their mother and father. His dad died over ten years ago, and his mother hadn’t been up here since. Ben, being the only offspring living nearby was relegated with moving his father’s memorabilia to the attic and since Ben had bought the old house from the estate, he, now would be responsible for dispensing the memories. The attic had been forgotten in any of the will documents. Stored Christmas lights brought it back into focus. He started with his father’s boxes. These were relatively fresh in Ben’s mind. Many clothes that could go to the Good Will, A few tools of nebulous usage, his marine uniform, Bess already had the medals from it. Ben spent a good day hauling the boxes down the bare board stairs and dispensing them into piles. Bess was in Dallas and Todd was in Florida. They both had families, careers and lives that kept them from coming up to Gary to help sort. A couple of phone calls and ninety present of his dad’s stuff was relegated to the Good Will haul. Ben found a home in his den for the old smoking table and science fiction book collection. These brought back the best memories with his dad. They read together over that old mahogany smoking table for years. Bess liked Horror and Romance, preferably in the same book and Todd didn’t read anything he didn’t have to. Now it was time to pull out his mother’s loot. This was the hardest because new images of his mother’s love played through his mind with every box or bag he opened. He stiffened his will and hauled it all down to the living room. Most of this haul was hand-me-downs from their grandparents, old files and pictures. Bess didn’t want any of her clothes, but did claim a few of the antiques and family heirlooms. Todd was happy with the old tools and wanted nothing more. A new call was made to the Good Will and Ben sat back to look at the stuff. He saw another month of sorting, just files and old pictures, scanning, saving to disk in triplicate and spreading to his siblings. Beyond the stack of photos was an old camera box, bright yellow with red and black markings. On hands and knees, Ben reached across the pile of paper and snapshots to pluck the old box from the mess. It was heavy. Across the box top, Ben read, Kodak Brownie Starflex. In side was a camera, a flash attachment a spare roll of C127 film and four flash bulbs. He pulled the camera free and looked through the viewfinder at the dining room window across the house. Below the viewfinder, a tiny little window showed him the film was on the sixteenth frame. “Wow.” Ben forgot his tasks and walked out of the house and down the driveway. Turning, he tested the winder to see it was wound and took a picture of the house. Next, he turned and took a snap of the old tree swing hanging from the oak tree in the front yard. One more quick shot of the driveway intersection of the street and he walked sadly back into the house. Speaking to the ghosts of the house, he said, “Amazing. I’m definitely going to have to print these pictures to see what was captured. I have five more pictures to take first. This will be cool. Pictures from the sixties mixed with two thousand, seven. Nice.” Ben set the camera aside long enough to finish his sorting chore. This took the rest of his day. Making mental notes, he pulled images into piles that either his brother, sister or he, himself would want but the others wouldn’t, and then poured the rest into large baggies for future scanning. It was dark when he finished. Good timing Rhea hit the doorbell as he stacked his last baggy of pictures. “You ready to buy me dinner my man?” Ben grinned. Rhea was his biggest source of joy. One of these days, he was going to spring the aging ring in his coat pocket. Maybe tonight was the night. “Hello Baby, you bet. I’m starved. What do you think of the steak house tonight?” She just grinned and raised her eyebrows. “Just before we go Rhea, I want to take a couple of pictures of us. I just dug out my mother’s old camera. I need to use up five pictures and I can take the film in for processing. Let me take a couple of you by the fireplace.” Rhea shrugged and moved over to the fireplace, lifted one foot onto the hearth and flipper her long blonde hair back in an exaggerated vogue pose. Laughing, Ben took three shots as she adjusted her stance. “Your turn, Get over here.” Ben showed her the winder and replaced her at the fireplace in a couple of silly poses for the glistening lens. “Good enough Baby, let’s get on our way. I can take that beef from here.” ### A week to the day, Ben got a call. His head had been in the clouds all week. Rhea had accepted the ring. In June, he would no longer be living alone. The snapshots were back from the specialty lab and ready for his pickup. Not thinking too much about it, Ben headed for the photo store after leaving work. He collected the yellow Kodak photo bag, flipped it on his car seat and headed home whistling a tune he couldn’t carry, but it didn’t matter. Life was good. He had hardly removed his shoes and flopped into his easy chair, when the gummed lip of the envelope was opened and a stack of twenty-four images were in his hands like four by four playing cards. Tears streamed, untamed, down his cheeks as he reveled in the images of his mother and father in their early thirties, playing in his back yard with two tow-headed and a redhead set of yard apes. One by one, the images went by and Ben lived out his fourth year all over again, including his birthday. Was it the fourth or fifth? He couldn’t count the candles. The memories continued to flow past until the sixteenth and Ben froze in shock. There waving from the freshly painted front door was his mother waving happily from the stoop. There was something wrong. He went back through the pictures and looked at an image of the front stoop back in the day. The door and sill were brown. The sixteenth snapshot showed the door and sill as bright white. Ben had just repainted the house to a light green with white trim. It has always been white with brown trim as he grew up. Ben moved on to the seventeenth picture. There was his grinning mother pushing him on the tree swing. Ben was fully grown in the picture and his mom was waving at the camera. The image dropped to the table as he pulled up the next image. His car was pulling into the driveway with his mother at the wheel. She never drove the hot-rod. She wouldn’t trust anything but her Buick, but there she was in his car. The biggest shock was in all these pictures, she was still barely thirty. “The fireplace pictures.” Ben yelped to the waiting room. He pulled the next, and there primping for the camera, was his young mother cavorting with him and Rhea at the fireplace. He couldn’t call Rhea, she was in evening class. He wouldn’t be able to talk to her now until tomorrow after work. He couldn’t call his siblings; they would just laugh then worry about the state of his mind. He couldn’t talk about this to anyone tonight. He looked in the bag again, mostly just because he could think of nothing else to do. Another roll of film was waiting for him to load. He loaded the camera and attached the flash but could think of nothing to do with it so he set it on the mantle and sat back in his chair, quite stunned. He didn’t fix dinner, he didn’t log on to his computer, and he didn’t turn on the TV. He just sat. Finally, he kicked back the recliner and dozed. Ben woke to a flash. ### His young mother was holding the camera and giggling at his reaction. “Sorry Benny, I just couldn’t help it. You looked so darned cute sleeping there.” “M…Mom?” “Shhh. Don’t worry about it Benny. I have simply found a way to keep in touch. The Brownie is our telephone.” “But, but… You’re… you know, dead…” “Only where you are Son, as you can see, I’m very much alive here.” Ben stood and started around his ottoman. “Mom?” “Oops, stay there Son”, she started to fade. He could see the brick right through her. “Mom?” “Benny, we have a connection. As long as you have that Brownie, take new pictures every time you need me. We can talk every time you release me from the negative. For now, I have to go, but now that I have your ear, don’t let Rhea get away. She is the one. I love you Son.” “Mom, don’t go. Not yet.” “I have to go now, but don’t worry. I will be back often. Just don’t loose that camera. Life is but an image.” The camera flashed again. When Ben could see, it was sitting back on the mantel and she was simply gone. He couldn’t wait to show Rhea now. He couldn’t wait to burn up another roll of film. He couldn’t wait for the next snapshot. |
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| Snapshot Robert P. Herbst www.mountperry.com |
#7 of 14 |
| 773 words | |
| Today, in honor of the coming Christmas Season, Yodar
Hoopelhoffer, the Mount Perry town idiot, has released a snapshot of his
upcoming movie epic, "The Lizard Of Oz" In this dramatic rendering of the
original story, Yodar has revitalized the characters of the original plot to
reflect more modern and contemporary ideals. Mind you, this is only a preview.
In This drama the Lizard of Oz is the story of the tyrannical, Tyrannosaurs Rex, ruler of the kingdom of Oz. He rules his kingdom through brutal fear and extreme violence, while protecting it from the ravages of an army of Carnivorous White Rabbits. These rabbits periodically invade the kingdom of Oz, by moving their forces down the brick road through the swamps. They seek to depose the tyrannical ruler and subjugate the people to the rule of the Witch of the North. In order to protect his kingdom, Tyrannosaurs Rex has enlisted the aid of the evil Dorothy Green Shoes. Dorothy arrived in the kingdom of Oz during a terrible tornado with her dog, Killer. Since her arrival she has made friends with a man eating lion. She is feared for her ability to stand in the grass along side the brick road. From her position of concealment, she would snatch unwary travelers from the road and feed them to her man eating lion and her dog. No one has ever seen Dorothy when she wears her green shoes and stands quietly in the grass, so the camouflage technique must work quite well. Both her dog and her lion seems very well fed. Knowing she could not defend the kingdom all alone with just one man eating lion and her dog, Killer, Dorothy has enlisted the aid of a deranged robot, stolen from a nearby robotics laboratory and a genetically altered scare crow found wandering aimlessly about in a corn field. The scarecrow being stuffed with straw, will be used to lure the rabbits off the brick road and out into the quicksand bogs. The scare crow, being lighter than a man will glide effortlessly over the quicksand, while the rabbits will, - well - use your imagination. The deranged robot will be unchained in the path of the invasion force and instructed to commit mayhem with anyone it found on the road. If and when the invading army is forced to flee in the face of this threat, the robot can simply be deactivated by a huge magnet suspended over the brick road. The army of rabbits, lead by the Witch of the North, is in revolt against the evil Tyrannosaurs Rex. She opposed his tyrannical oppression and taxation of the people he rules. Once inside the city walls, she feels the people will rise up against the evil Tyrannosaurs Rex and depose him, forcing him to flee the city into the surrounding swamps. There he can be dealt with by the Carnivorous Insects, Hungry Alligators and Poisonous Snakes living in the swamp. If not, the Quick Sand is sure to get him before he gets too far. At this point the Witch of the North will impose her own taxes and begin to systematically eliminate any opposition to her rule. Those opposed to the new rule will be forced to follow their previous ruler out into the swamps. Dorothy Green Shoes has been hired to form an army to defend Oz against this invading army and save the benevolent dynasty of Tyrannosaurs Rex. Both sides having agreed to the Oz rules of civilized warfare, Dorothy was limited in her choice of weapons to use against the invading hoards. At least until she was contacted by the Witch of the South, who was an illegal arms dealer who dealt in stolen surplus military hardware on the side. Dorothy was able to get Tyrannosaurs Rex to finance her purchase of enough nerve gas, land mines, and napalm to cover the invasion route. There were also pitfalls and sharpened bamboo traps. Fortunately for Dorothy, no illegal weapons were found to be deployed or Dorothy could be in big trouble. This does not mean they aren't there. Just, they weren't found. Thus, the stage is set for this epic battle between the forces of evil and ---- well, - more evil. This new movie should be released some time next month. Mind you, this is only a rough outline, the movie will have a great deal more detail to it and the audience will be limited to people over 18 years of age and only with their parents consent. |
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| Snapshot Fay Reeve fay.reeve@bigpond.com |
#8 of 14 |
| 1046 words | |
| The year I was seven, my dad bought a camera. Not a box Brownie, which would have been extravagant enough from mum’s point of view, but a Steinheil Casca camera, a name I couldn’t even pronounce. Mum rolled her eyes and shook her head when she saw the price. "It cost how much?" she almost spat the words out. "I don’t suppose you even thought about the new school shoes the kids need?" One of mine had a hole in the sole and the cardboard she cut to fit inside the shoe only lasted a few days. It was totally useless if it rained. "The money that camera cost could have kept them in shoes until the end of their school days. You must have been bitten by a damned ‘shutter-bug’," she muttered, as she stormed out of the house to feed the chooks. Dad followed her into the yard. "I think the expense is justified Beryl. We should have a decent camera. I’ll be able to take photos of the kids. It’ll be a record of their growing up years. I bet they’ll be much better than those starchy-stiff ones that professional bloke took last year. Cost an arm and a leg, too." He polished the lens with a soft cloth that came with the camera. Mum glared at him. Her expression said, ‘I’m totally lost for words.’ From then on, the camera was an extension of dad’s arm. He took it everywhere accompanied by its chum, the light meter. He joined the local camera club. He even managed to take a few snapshots, not many of us kids, though. Mum always went to great pains to point this fact out to him. Mum’s remarks must have made Dad feel guilty. He began following us around the back yard, meddling in our games and making a right nuisance of himself. Usually, by the time he had checked the light numerous times, adjusted the shutter speed, got us all posed in what he considered to be a ‘natural, but balanced’ composition, the light would be wrong again or we’d lost interest and run off. Our games were much more fun! On the last Sunday of the school holidays, mum and dad decided they’d give us a treat. "We’ll spend the whole day at the beach," Dad announced. Mum packed a picnic lunch of sandwiches and the last of the Christmas cake into her shopping basket and covered the food with folded towels. We wore our ‘cosies’ under our clothes. Immediately after breakfast, we caught the tram to St Kilda Beach. I wasn’t rapt in the beach. That huge ocean, stretching as far as I could see, scared me. But my brother loved it. Dad stood at the water’s edge with his trousers rolled up to his knees. The camera hung from its leather strap round his neck. My ‘show-off’ brother went straight into his water baby act – dog-paddling back and forth and duck-diving for a rock he’d picked up on the sand. Mum and I kept away from the water. She sat on a towel, leaning back on her hands, just like one of those beach belles that they showed on the newsreel at the Saturday matinees. I decided I’d build the biggest and best sandcastle on the whole beach. Probably big enough to live in, even. I walked along, out of reach of the waves, gathering shells and rocks, and some pieces of seaweed and interesting bits of driftwood for decoration. Mum helped me heap up the damp sand with my bucket and spade. We pounded it down until it was hard, then pushed the shells and rocks in a squiggly pattern all over the walls. That sandcastle stood as high as mum’s waist with turrets at each corner and a doorway we could walk through. It was big enough for us both to stand inside. "Wow, Joanie, this is the best sandcastle I’ve ever seen," mum said. "What a pity the tide’s going to come in and wash it all away, in a few hours." That hadn’t occurred to me. All our hard work – washed away by the ocean. "Why don’t we get your dad to take a picture of it?" mum suggested. Dad agreed. I think it pleased him that mum actually asked him to take a photo. The camera remained a huge sore point with her. "Call Frankie first, Jim. It’ll be time for lunch when you’ve taken the picture." Dad turned and let out a piercing whistle. Frankie looked round and waved. Mum and I stood behind the sandcastle so that dad could get what he called ‘a decent shot’. "Lift your face up, Joanie, there’s a shadow across your eyes." Dad had gone into his usual ritual of checking the light meter and camera settings. "Big smiles, now." The sun shone in my eyes. I squinted as I raised my chin and smiled a cheesy smile. A sharp slap, slap, slap of feet on wet sand, a screaming "bombs awaaayyy…" and a splattering of salty water across my face startled me almost out of my wits. Frankie had launched himself into the sandcastle. Shells, rocks and slivers of wood flew in all directions. The walls and turrets collapsed. My brother sprawled in the midst of the ruins. He looked so pleased with himself; a soppy grin split the freckles that covered his stupid face. "Oh, mum, look what he’s done. He’s wrecked it." I began to cry. I could forget that photo of the sandcastle now. "Frankie, just what did you think you were up to?" Mum stood with her hands on her hips. I knew Frankie was in for it. When mum stands like that, it means she’s mad. "Dad whistled for me to come, so I did." Right, Frankie, I thought, but dad didn’t mean ‘trash the sand castle’. We all looked at dad. He wasn’t worried about all the damage my moron brother had caused, though. He was busy fiddling with the camera. "I think I just got the most terrific action shot. Frankie was in mid-air when I took it." ******* That snapshot won first prize in the open photographic competition staged in the St Kilda Town Hall, later in the year. With the prize money, Dad shouted us all fish and chips to celebrate. Mum didn’t say a word. |
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| Snapshot Samantha K. McGuire AMaze07ike@aol.com |
#9 of 14 |
| 699 words | |
| My heart is filled with the love that you have given me. The memories of us: once together, lying side by side holding each other forever. The laughs, in which, we shared. Along with the tears, that only made us closer. Running to you, when I felt scared, knowing that you would hold me and tell me, “Everything is okay. You are safe now.” Looking deep into your eyes, wondering, how someone so wonderful could come into my life, when everything was going so bad? The songs we would sing together while dancing in front of the mirror. The blankets, we would cuddle under, while watching a movie with a bowl of chips. Swinging on the swings, while discussing our future and talking about being friends forever. Telling our deepest secrets and knowing that they will always stay deep within us. Sitting up in our tree house, writing poetry, that hits our hearts strongly. We have the best conversations when we sit in front of each other, but do not say a word, but yet, know exactly what each one is thinking. We would make weird concoctions and we would always taste one another’s – no matter how bad it smelled. The best thing ever is that you always believed in me. When I said, that I would fly one day, you were the one that helped me tie the umbrella on my back. You helped me climb up on the roof and you held my hand when I jumped off. We both learned a valuable lesson – people cannot fly. You taught me that whenever people laughed at me, just to laugh with them. The number one thing that you always have told me and I still believe is to always be yourself, no matter who wants to change you, the only person that is going to be there for you, forever, is yourself. I have learned that that is absolutely true. You were always there for me, no matter the time of the day. You taught me how to swim. I was always afraid of drowning, but you held on to me, until I finally learned how to do it myself. You taught me how to ride a bike. You said the best way to learn is to try, try, try, and never to give up. My dreams you believed in. You taught me that I can do anything (except fly) if I put my mind to it. You knew when something was wrong even before I said anything. You taught me that the only thing to ever be afraid of is fear itself. Looking back, we did do some crazy things. The thing is though: if we would not have done some of those things, would we still be the person that we are today? I cried one day and you were not there. You left, without a good-bye. You disappeared out of my life. No words or anything, just gone. Now, I understand why you just left – because you could not stay here anymore. You were sick and it was your time to go. As we both learned growing up, the hardest thing to ever do is to say good-bye to a loved one, because we will never know when we will see them again. I did not go to your funeral. It was too hard for me, to have to see you just lying there with no smile. No laughter that I always heard when around you. So, I stayed in my room that day. I was mad at you for leaving me, mad that you would not be there to make sure that my dreams come true. Over a couple of days, I finally learned that it was the way things were suppose to be. I did not lose my best friend, because you are always going to be there for me. This friendship is the only one that I know will last, because you are always here, in my heart forever, as I carefully place that snapshot of you and I hugging into a picture frame. I will, one day, tell my children, “This is the boy that saved my life.” | |
| Snapshot bren60@bellsouth.net |
#10 of 14 |
| 2437 words | |
| It was a slow morning on the second floor of the
Cleveland homicide division. Frank Capriccio was finishing his coffee while
working on the morning crossword. “Frank, that was a call from a
vic.’s daughter.” “Yeah, what vic. is that?” He said without looking away from his paper. “Do you remember the Hanshaw case? It was about five, six years ago.” “A cold case, let me see,” he said still looking down at his paper with his pencil poised for the next answer to come to mind. “Come on Frank, give it up. Your coffee is cold and so is your paper.” “What?” Frank snapped, giving his full attention to John Trainer, his partner. “I know Hanshaw, cold case, a lady about 50ish found dead next to her car in the tri-level garage downtown. Right?” “Amazing, you and I handled that one and we got nowhere. No motive, no clues, anyway the daughter says she may have a clue for us. Could be something or nothing. Hanshaw’s daughter is coming to the hall with her information. I’m going to get all the info from properties and go over what little we have. Are you finished with your paper I could use the help?” “Yah, yah, I’m heading for the john. I’ll help you when I get back. I saw that. Why do you roll your eyes every time I say I’m going to the john? Hey fill in the blank; what is a three-letter word for pain in the you know what? Or, maybe you just don’t like it being referred to as the ‘john’.” John and Frank started out as rookies together and had been partners for the last 15 years. They sat in the conference room sorting over every detail of the Hanshaw murder. Nothing jumped out at them and they were sure that what ever the Hanshaw daughter brought in was going to be just another dead end. “It is like beating a dead horse,” said Frank. “I know these families want to have closure but what can you do. What could she have found that could be of any help?” Just then, a voice came over the intercom, “John, a Mrs. Marcum is here to see you.” “Send her back Marcy, we’re expecting her.” John said then saw the Hanshaw daughter walk toward them. He remembered her from the investigation. She had been away at college at the time and now she was married and very pregnant. “Well Frank we shall soon find out if she has anything that can be of help.” “Mrs. Marcum is it now, good to see you again. Please sit down. You remember Detective Capriccio?” “Yes of course.” she nodded in Frank’s direction. “I hope what I have will be of some help.” She held out a snap shot, “This is my mother; it was taken by a street photographer the day she was killed. There is a date on the back. My father passed away three weeks ago, we found it while going through his things. It looks like it may be in front of the May Company; also there is a man behind my mother looking right into the camera.” Frank took the snapshot then handed it to John after looking it over. “We’ll have someone from forensics check this out,” said Frank. “You know this could possibly be another dead end. Don’t get your hopes up too much,” as John said the words, he checked the picture to see if he could recognize the man in the hooded sweatshirt. “I don’t recognize him but that doesn’t mean anything. Forensics will check it against any wanteds. We should have some information for you tomorrow.” “I remember they said some guy in a hooded sweatshirt was scared off by a group of people from the bank next to the tri-level parking garage,” said Jen Marcum. “They said a man was going through her purse but ran when they got off the elevator. What if he wanted the claim for the photo?” “You have been doing your own detective work, huh?” Said Frank. “I remember everything about the case. I read and reread everything I could get my hands on. We all did, my brother, sister and I. We have been studying this picture for the last 3 days and last night we remembered a witness saying something about a man in the hooded sweatshirt, so I decided to bring it in to you. Dad must have found the receipt and had it developed.” John sat on the table next to her. “We appreciate anything that can help us solve this murder. I know you and your family want closure. As you know, we had very little to go on and we exhausted every lead we had. “We will send this photo off to forensics and see if there are any clues here. This man could have been a purse-snatcher. We will see if he is in our files. It was good that you brought it in. We will be in touch. Make sure that you give Marcy a contact number on your way out. And again thank you.” Walking back to their desks Frank said, “I will take this over to forensics. We need to check out the company that is listed on the back. We might have something here. What do you think, John?” “Maybe so Frank, maybe so.” “Okay, what have we got here?” Frank said thinking out-loud. “A snap shot of the possible perp. John, I called the company that developed the picture. They said that it was the last of this particular photographer’s work. Are you ready for this? The day after the date on the back of the photo, the photographer was murdered by a man now serving time in Joliet.” When John and Frank went over the work-up on the photographer’s murder, they found a detective Conner and Murphy from the Euclid District had handled the case. A few phone calls later and they had all the files faxed to the office. Conner had retired shortly after the indictment and Murphy was on vacation. So they pretty much had everything to themselves. “The photographer, Walter Bradley, was murdered by a jealous husband a Marshall Clark. It seems that the photographer was playing around with Clark’s wife. Clark was spotted not far from the murder scene. He had motive and was in the area at the right time. Clark is serving time in Joliet, claims he is innocent, the Bradley woman visits him, a model prisoner and all that.” John was paraphrasing what he was reading. John put his hands behind his head and stretched. “Now all we have to do was to wait to hear from forensics. Frank, you want to call it a day. I’ve had it.” “That sounds good to me. Mavis has her bridge club tonight and I‘m going to eat at Luigi’s want to join me?” “Great, beats a TV dinner any day.” “Phone call Frank,” called out Marcy just as he hit the landing of the first floor. He looked up at Marcy leaning over the railing of the second floor. “Who is it?” Said Frank. “Watson from forensics.” Back upstairs John sat at his desk, watching Frank’s face while he took down the information he was getting from Watson. “What’s he got?” John asked when Frank hung up. “Well I don’t know what this means but we may have to open another case.” “What are you talking about, another case?” John asked “They have some more cross matching to do to be sure. Do you remember the Mead case where the wife was sent to prison for the murder of her husband? He was a big lottery winner and they said that she was after his money. The body was never found but they found his car and some incriminating evidence against the wife in the Berea quarry. This has to go back about eight years, remember.” “Yes somewhat, why?” “Well, Watson said that the guy in the background is a dead ringer of Fred Mead, the dead husband. Let’s go to dinner and I’ll bring you up to speed.” Two days had passed and Frank and John were in the conference room waiting for the DA and the Chief. When they entered the room, Frank nodded toward John. “A couple of days ago the daughter of a Mrs. Hanshaw brought in this picture,” John nodded toward the screen at the end of the room. “Mrs. Hanshaw was murdered 5 years ago on October 15. In the picture, you will notice a man in the background who has now been identified as Fred Mead murdered eight years ago by his wife, Patricia Mead. Patricia Mead is now serving a life sentence at Marysville. Also, the senior Fred Mead was in intensive care and later died of a massive stroke in the same time span as the murders of Margaret Hanshaw and a street photographer by the name of Walter Bradley.” “Walter Bradley was murdered about 36 hours after Mrs. Hanshaw,” finished Frank. “Walter Bradley was having an affair with the wife of a Marshall Clark. We have never had a conviction in the Margaret Hanshaw case but we feel this is our perp. Here is a side by side of Fred Mead shortly before his so-called death and a forensics blow up of the snap shot from the street photographer. We have contacted the company that employed Walter Bradley and his camera was never found in his home or at the murder scene. Marshall Clark swears he is innocent but he didn’t have an alibi during the time of the murder. There was motive and he was in the area. The Euclid police were working on this case and did not connect this to the Hanshaw murder. In our records we never mentioned a photo because we didn’t know one existed.” “We have talked to Fred Mead’s mother, Miranda Mead and she was not very cooperative. She did confirm that her son’s marriage was a battleground. She believes that Patricia Mead was fully capable of murder. We asked if her husband had any visits right before he died. She did comment that her husband had very few visitors while in the hospital and she knew those he did have. “I talked to a private nurse that was on duty that night, now living in Florida. She said that there was a man in the room one night but she felt the wife must have known him since she was there all the time. The nurse went into the room and saw a man kneeling by the bed and Mr. Mead was holding his hand. She said that she backed out of the room and left them alone. She faxed us this statement this morning. She was sent a copy of Fred Mead’s photo and she could not positively identify him but she did say the man in the room was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Apparently, this was her favorite case because of the lottery winnings and they paid very well. The chief pursed his lips and looked from John to Frank, then “What are you telling us? You have me very confused. We have three murder victims and two bodies, two people serving time, one cold case. You think all these cases are related and the perpetrator is a dead man.” “Exactly Chief, I think we can clear up all these cases if we can get a search warrant for Miranda Mead’s house and bring her in for questioning,” said John. “Why are we just now finding out about this photo?” asked the D. A. “We wondered the same thing. If it were in her purse or car, we would have had it on file. The photo company keeps all those records; the check was received two days after her death. The only thing we can figure is that Margaret Hanshaw mailed in the claim and had the stub in her purse. The perp must have gotten the stub, went to the company then followed the photographer. “The picture was processed and sent out about two weeks after Margaret Hanshaw’s death.” John continued, “The daughter is looking for the canceled check to see if indeed her mother wrote the check.” “Okay, John, Frank, let’s bring in the Mead woman. We will take one-step at a time. First, we find out if her son was at his father’s deathbed, because if he was and she knew he was there then she is an accomplice. By the looks of this picture, we are holding a woman in prison that does not belong there. We will also write up a search warrant of all accounts and phone activity. I want someone to go to Marysville and show Patricia Mead the picture and get a statement. Then we will go to the next step and find this Mead guy. Next we start working on Marshall Clark’s case.” John and Frank were at there desks, John was on the phone and Frank was drinking the last of his morning coffee while working on a crossword puzzle. “Well, Frank that was the D. A. he said that Fred Mead has been found in Patagonia, Argentina. He will be here by next Tuesday. Patricia Mead is being released from Marysville this afternoon. Miranda Mead has been spilling her guts hoping for a lighter sentence. The guys in Euclid want to talk to Fred Mead as soon as he is back in town. Maybe Marshall Clark is innocent after all. Time will tell.” “We have the check written by Mrs. Hanshaw for the photo, so that solves that mystery. Pretty good for a few days work. Hey John, what is an eight letter word for a tourist’s memento.” “Hmm, does snap shot fit. |
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| Snapshot Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#11 of
14 Runner-up |
| 1115 words | |
| The two men stood in the headlights of the rusted Ford
pickup. To their west loomed the mountains. Silhouetted against the cold blue
sky of twilight, their sharp-edged, treeless peaks, like enormous dinosaur
teeth, jutted up suddenly from the desert floor. "If you stand here and look out that way towards Carrizozo. most nights you can see 'em. Bright streaks of light coming down outta the sky. Appearing all of a sudden like. Almost as if they came out of nowhere. Here, I have a picture. See?" The old man handed McAlester a snapshot. He put on his reading glasses and looked it over, tilting it first one way and then another, trying to find the best angle for viewing it in the harsh glare of the headlights. It appeared to show several men standing in line at the foot of a ramp. A blurry metallic object – presumably a craft of some sort – was hovering above them. "This is a Polaroid," McAlester remarked. "Is that a problem?" "No. No, not at all." "Yeah, the Agency gives them to me. Every month a new camera comes by parcel post along with a check. They tell me it's my job, to take the pictures, to keep a file. I guess that means I work for the government, huh? Imagine that, will ya." "Yeah, imagine …" McAlester's voice trailed off into the cold night air. He was engrossed in the picture, only half listening to the old man. The Polaroid had taken him by surprise. He hadn't been expecting that. Twenty years of investigating sightings and this was the first time anyone had tried to pass off a Polaroid. A dozen years ago it was all darkroom tricks – double exposures, homemade models, things like that - pretty easy to spot for the most part, especially if you could get hold of the negative. Nowadays it seemed everybody and his brother had a digital camera and access to computer software tricks and gimmicks that could have you believing your own mother was an alien. But a Polaroid? A step backward in technology? It made no sense. "What was that you said about a file? You mean you have a file of pictures like this?" "More of a log really. You know, date, time, number of landings observed. That sort of thing. Been keepin' it since the fifties. Real religious like, never miss a day." "And pictures? Do you have any more like this one in that file of yours?" "Nah, not right now I don't. Just what you got in your hand there, that's all. Y'see, every couple weeks or so an agent comes by and takes what I got. Real official like. Shows me his badge, gives me a signed receipt. Even goes so far as to thank me for my service to my country and all like that. Says how proud he is of the job I'm doing. Like I said, real official like, these agents." The old man liked to talk, to build up his own importance. McAlester had met his kind before, and the old guy fit the mold perfectly. Government agents, parcel post shipments, service to his country. In another minute or two, he'd probably start spinning some yarn about being abducted by little green men. Still, there was that damned Polaroid. It looked legitimate enough, but it was hard to judge out here. McAlester needed to get that picture back to the lab and see how it would hold up under some serious scientific scrutiny. "So where was it exactly that you were standing when you took this picture?" "Oh, I was right up by 'em. Right just this side of the fence there, by their base." "By their base, huh? And they let you do that? They let you get that close?" "They're not unfriendly." "Really?" "Listen, I'd be glad to take you on out there if'n you'd like. See for yourself if you don't believe me." After twenty years of interviewing individuals who claimed to have had contact with visitors from outer space, this was the first time anyone had ever offered McAlester the chance to meet one in person. It was the break of a lifetime, the story of the century. A picture was one thing – even a Polaroid with no obvious way to doctor the image – but it was still second hand evidence at best. However, to actually interview a space alien in person – simply put, it was why McAlester went in to journalism in the first place. He immediately accepted the old man's offer, and the two of them began the drive out across the desert toward the foothills and history. If there was a road that led to where they were going, the old man didn't bother to take it. He aimed the truck toward a faint blue glow at the base of one of the mountains in the distance and stepped on the gas. The pickup rattled through the darkness, squeaking and groaning as it bounced across the rough terrain. Then, almost as if they had entered another world, the truck cleared a rise and the base suddenly appeared below them. Two stanchions of lights, about sixty feet in height and connected by thick black cables to a huge power generator, illuminated the area. The lights were set up on either side of a spindle-arm cherry picker with a universal joint. The lights were focused on the metallic craft-like object that McAlester recognized from the snapshot the old man had shown him. Outside of the lighted zone were several Airstream trailers and a score of workmen. Some of the workmen were dressed in jeans and windbreakers and others wore military uniforms and carried rifles. They were all gathered around a canteen truck and appeared to be eating sandwiches and drinking hot, steaming coffee. McAlester turned to the old man sitting beside him. "It's a movie set! You dragged me all the way out here to look at a dumb-ass movie set, you stupid Okie. Look, don't say nothing, okay. Just turn around and take me back into town." "Well, if'n that's what you want, but I'd a thought - " "Please, don't think. Just drive. And here, you can have your picture back, too." McAlester yanked the snapshot out of his pocket and tossed it in the direction of the old man. "After all, we wouldn't want the agency to reduce your salary because you didn't turn in your quota of pictures this month, now would we?" The old man turned the truck around and drove east back across the desert toward town. On the movie set the director emerged from his cocoon and slithered up the cherry-picker to his seat next to the cameraman. "Places, everyone!" he shouted, cupping a slimy green three-fingered hand to his mouth. The workers and the actors hurried back to their spots. When they were all ready to resume filming a second little green creature waddled in front of the camera holding a clapperboard. "Travelogue: Journey to Earth. Scene 53, Take 3," he said and brought the two clapsticks together. |
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| Snapshot McChandler rjgallen05@yahoo.com |
#12 of 14 |
| 2200 words | |
| Dear Diary, April 15 - I hate my father.
Absolutely despise the bastard. He never has time for father-son stuff anymore.
All he wants to do is party with his buddies down at the VFW and get
rip-roaring drunk. Sometimes I think I’d be better off if he was the one
that left, not Mom. Since she’s been gone he hasn’t been the same.
However, with what’s been happening around the house lately, there’s
no choice except to tolerate him, at least for now. Putting up with Gram’s
little indiscretions is becoming a living nightmare. Alone it would be pure
hell. Helping to dispose of corpses is not what I want to remember of my
teenage years. At least with all the commotion Dad hasn’t hit me
lately. “Hey, Dad! What in bloody hell is another body doing hanging around our living room?” Aaron yelled to his father who was in the kitchen. “I thought we were done finding corpses.” “Say what?” “There’s a dead man cluttering up the floor in here. It’s really annoying. And to top things off, he’s blocking my view of the widescreen. I can’t see past him to play any video games.” His father dropped what he was doing and ran to the living room. He stopped at the doorway and stared at the man slumped on the floor in front of the plasma TV for a minute. “Oh, no! This can’t be happening. It’s gotta be a bad dream,” his father muttered, closing his eyes. He slowly opened them and stared at the living room floor again. “Are you sure he’s dead, Aaron and not just taking a nap? Sometimes your grandmother’s friends are so old they have a bad habit of suddenly falling asleep and keeling over at the drop of a hat. They don’t care where they roost. I think its called narcolepsy. Try tapping him on the shoulder or something to wake him up.” His son rolled his eyes. “Fine, Dad, but if you’ve seen one stiff you’ve seen ‘em all. And believe me, I’ve seen quite a few of them around here lately.” He bent over the prone figure on the floor and rolled him over onto his back. After a few seconds, he looked up at his father. “Well, I’ve never seen someone catching some Z's that had a bloody hole in his forehead. No need to tap him; he ain’t gonna wake up anytime soon.” His father shook his head. “Shit. Don’t tell me your grandmother is running around with Gramps trusty old .45. Didn’t we tell her not to put any bullets in it after the last time?” “Uh, I think so, but you know Grams. When does she ever listen?” His father nodded. “You’re right. Remember the door-to-door salesman last month?” Aaron scowled. “How could I forget? She ‘accidentally’ plugged him three times. I helped you bury him in the backyard. And speaking of out back, isn’t it getting a tad overcrowded out there?” “Mmm…it might be, at that, son. If she keeps acting out much longer, we’ll have no choice but to go condo.” “Condo?” “Yeah, bury them on top of each other. It’ll conserve a lot of space that way. At the rate she’s going I’ll have to consider buying an acre from the neighbors just to spread them out a bit.” Aaron raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you afraid the cops will start nosing around with people disappearing in the neighborhood?” “Nah. It’s only been five so far this year. It’s not like she’s popping them every month. Don’t worry; the local yokels are too busy catching speeders on the interstate and tasering junkies to worry about a few souls vanishing. People take off all the time around town. Take your mother for example. No one ever bothered to check that out. Besides, they’d never suspect Grams of being involved. In fact, I think she’s on a first name basis with most of the cops. They always stop by the house to make sure she gets home safely from church. And as far as they’re concerned she’s just the little old lady who lives on the corner and bakes fruitcakes. Who’d believe she’s a fruitcake herself?” Aaron nodded. “You’ve got a good point there. Even though Grams is looney tunes sometimes, she puts on a pretty normal front for most people. Want me to take a picture before we bury her latest?” “Sure, why not. There’s plenty of film left in the camera. Another snapshot for her album couldn’t hurt.” Aaron lifted the Polaroid from the top of the living room bookshelf and flashed a photo of the dead man. “Why does she keep pictures of dead people, Dad? You never told me.” “Don’t rightly know for a fact why she wants them, son. All that comes to mind is that it’s probably a hold-over from the good old days in the thirties and forties when your grandfather was a hit-man. It must remind her of him.” “A what?” “A trigger man; I thought you knew. Back in the day, your grandfather was a hired gun. Rubbed out people for the mob. Money was pretty tight before the war and apparently she didn’t mind his job since it paid the rent and gave them a hell of a lot of extra cash. And knowing her, I’ll wager she even helped out with some of them. So what she does now isn’t all together that strange. I’m really afraid if Grams stops what she’s doing now she’ll go all the way crazy.” “As opposed to being just a little off her rocker?” Aaron snidely commented as he eased the photo into a plastic sleeve along with the others in a red album on the coffee table. “It could be a lot worse.” “Compared to what, Custer’s Last Stand?” His father smiled. “Not quite, but almost. Thank heavens she’s only using a forty-five. She could’ve found your grandfather’s Thompson submachine gun that’s hidden in the attic and started mowing down a whole bunch of folks. If it’s any consolation to you, at least she’s only doing them in one at a time.” Aaron shook his head. “How about she’s a psychopath, Dad? A serial killer?” “I wouldn’t go that far. She’s just a little accident prone.” His son frowned. “Okay, so she’s not like other old ladies who bake cookies and knit sweaters. She burns everything she puts in the oven, and as far as knitting is concerned, the last thing she made was a one-of-a-kind plaid and lace body bag. She’d make good competition for the old ladies in the movie Arsenic and Old Lace. But she never means to harm anybody.” Aaron snorted. “You always say that. Why can’t this family be normal, Dad? Ever since Mom took off with that Chippendale dancer things haven’t been the same. At least she could control your mother. I don’t remember Grams ‘accidentally’ killing people when Mom was still around.” “Don’t ever remind me of your mother,” his father shouted at him, shaking his fists in the air. “I’d hate to have to take care of your sorry ass again.” Aaron hung his head. The beatings were now less severe and far and few between. When his mother first took off, they came weekly like clockwork. One of them hurt so bad he couldn’t sit down for an entire week. “Okay, sorry Dad,” he said lowering his voice. “Don’t freak out. I didn’t mean anything by it. But you’ve got to admit things have been getting weirder around here.” “Hey, of all people I don’t condone what your grandmother does. For all I know it’ll lessen the value of the house. Especially if someone decides to do a lot of gardening. But whatever Grams does, remember she does it accidentally, never on purpose. Now go on and finish your homework before I go downtown.” “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get right on it after I get rid of the thing in the living room. He’s beginning to smell. You gonna help?” “No, this one is all yours. I helped plant the last two. I’m going up to my room to take a nap. They’re no dead bodies upstairs, are there?” Aaron shook his head. “Good. I hate it when she leaves them there too. Oh, and you’d better go on up and see her before she goes to bed. She was asking about you today.” He followed his father upstairs and went to his grandmother’s door and knocked. “Come in,” she said. He found her sitting on an armchair by the window cleaning a large caliber revolver. “Hey, Grams, what’s happening?” She looked up from what she was doing. “Oh, I didn’t know you were home already. How’s school coming?” she said wrapping the gun in an oilcloth. “Fine. Don’t forget I graduate in June.” His grandmother sighed. “Time sure flies when you get old. Why it seems just yesterday your Daddy finished high school.” “I know. Hey Gram, you know the stuff that you do…uh…with that thing,” he said pointing to the bundle in her lap. “Oh, you mean ‘Oliver’ here,” she replied patting the cloth. “Oliver?” he repeated arching his eyebrows. His grandmother laughed. “Yes, ‘Oliver’. I’ve always named my guns. It seems a lot more personal that way. And the stuff I do, I don’t intend anything bad to happen. It’s just that sometimes I forget that he’s loaded, and BANG! -- another one bites the dust. Like today with that man Earl in the living room.” Earl? “Yeah, Aaron, we used to play bingo together but Earl had this thing about me walking home at night by myself. So when he came over to visit this morning I told him there was no need to worry anymore, I had protection. That’s when I showed him ‘Oliver’. In fact, I even pulled the trigger to prove it wasn’t loaded. And it did go, click, click -- twice. Then he took the gun and just had to try it himself and the damn thing went off and…” His grandmother paused for a moment and wiped the tears from her eyes. “It was just his misfortune to be pointing the barrel at his forehead at the time. Now I’m afraid he’s a permanent deadhead. At least he didn’t suffer like some of the others I’ve had to shoot two or three times to put them out of their misery. Thank heavens you and your father take care of cleaning up my messes. I’d have no idea what to do with them all. I just wish I understood why ‘Oliver’ sometimes has bullets in him. He’s a bad, bad boy you know wasting all that ammunition.” She patted the cloth again and sighed. Aaron shot his grandmother a strange look. “Did you ever kill someone for money, Grams?” Her eyes brightened. “Funny you should ask that. I sure as hell did clip somebody. But just once and that was back in ’37 or ’38. I forget exactly which year. Makes no difference anyhow, dead is dead. Henry, that’s your grandfather, was sick in bed with the flu and couldn’t carry out a contract, so I took over for him. You shoulda seen the look on the poor suckers face when he realized a woman was sent to take him out. Almost didn’t have to shoot him. Damn man nearly died from a heart attack. And know what the best part was? Dear old Henry gave me all the money he earned from the hit. We had a great time with it down at the racetrack. I even doubled it for him.” Aaron just sat and stared. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After making some small talk, he said goodnight and went downstairs where he reluctantly dragged the man in the living room out to the garage. He hated doing this stuff alone, but he couldn’t let the man linger in the house for too long. Besides smelling, what if one of his friends showed up unexpectedly, he thought. How would he go about explaining a dead guy on the floor? An Easter decoration? He didn’t think that would fly. And his father surely wouldn’t be of any help. He found an old rug and rolled the guy up and shoved the whole thing into a wheelbarrow. Pushing it outside in the darkness, he stopped next to the hole he’d prepared earlier at the far end of the yard. He was about to tip in the contents of the cart, when he heard his father screaming from his upstairs bedroom. “Mom, what the hell do you think you’re doing with that thing? Put it down before somebody gets hurt.” “What does it look like I’m doing son? I’ll give you a hint. This ain’t no pea-shooter I’m pointing at you. ‘Oliver’ here is locked and loaded.” “But why?” “Money of course. Why else would I kill someone intentionally? Despite what you may think I’m not nuts, you know. My grandson gave me enough dough to play bingo down at the church hall that’ll last me all year and then some. That’s more than I can say for the pitiful allowance you give me, sonny.” That’s all he needed to hear. Aaron whistled as he started digging another hole. Finally, he would be free. He smiled when he thought of taking this snapshot. It would definitely be a keeper. |
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| Snapshot Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#13 of
14 Winner |
| 888 words | |
| "So whose idea was it to have the reunion down beside
the lake?" Justin asked the question in a voice that had changed little in the
ten years he had been away. Warm under the midday sun, he opened another beer
and stuck the ring pull down into the sand. Looking round the dozen or so old
classmates spread out on towels and rugs he saw the years since school had been
kind to some. Others looked uncomfortable and out of place in swimwear. Not yet
thirty, they had already joined the ranks of those who should have the sense to
know they looked better with all their clothes on. One still well-proportioned girl threw him a paper cup. "It was me," said Mary. "I thought it was time to take our clothes off and just have some fun again." She started to sing 'Just in Time.' The words didn't come out quite right, which seemed to have something to do with several empty beer cans that lay beside her. "Don't give up the day job Mary. We can't all be stars like my old buddy Justin," said Patrick moving over to put an arm round his old buddy's shoulder. A few eyebrows were raised by those who remembered how Justin used to treat Patrick in the old days. But that was then and this was now. Patrick had put on weight and not all fat either and he no longer looked like he could be pushed around. What's more, Justin didn't look at all threatening with his thick prescription sunglasses and long scarf, which he was still wearing even with swimwear. Mary saw a photo opportunity. "Our Celebrity Designer and our Celebrity Photographer I've got to get that," she said taking out her camera. She took snapshots of the others too. "Okay you can stop holding your tummies in now," said Mary, for most really had been holding them in. Everyone settled down to exchanging stories in the small groups and cliques so easily remembered from their school days. Patrick stuck close to Justin and pressed him about his new celebrity status. Justin was happy to tell. "Celebrity has a currency of its own. Once you can get enough TV exposure, people recognize you. They tell their friends they've met you. You get paid to open things. The easy money is from endorsing products. Folks like to see a well known face in the advert or on the packaging, someone they think they can trust. Celebrity is an occupation in its own right. It's a profession just like being a lawyer or a doctor. I've got to work hard at my image. I don't ever go out without the long scarf and the dark glasses. My image is my trademark. But didn't I hear Mary say you're a celebrity now too?" Patrick didn't answer. He just nodded towards Mary who was now deep in conversation with one of the other girls and gestured knowingly with his beer can. It was then that someone shouted, "Time for beef burgers and Pepsi just like the old days." They all made a move except Justin who drew some loud and unkind comments when he asked to be excused claiming he was vegetarian now. "That's okay," said Patrick. "I'll stay with Justin and talk about the good old days and we can keep an eye on the things." They watched the others make their noisy way along the path beside the water. Even when they were out of sight they could still be heard for a while in the still quiet of the lakeside for there were few other people around. After some stories and a few more beers, Patrick sat up straight and pointed. "I can see Mary's camera. It's a proper one, with film. Not a digital. Her father has a camera shop and does the prints for her." Looking around and seeing no one was near, he went over, made a few adjustments and passed the camera to Justin indicating that he should take a picture. "I wonder what her father will make of this one," he said with a wicked grin as he turned his back to the camera, slipped his pants off, bent over and grinned at the lens now seen upside down between his legs. "Now you," he said. "Quickly before anyone sees us." Patrick carefully put Mary's camera back where it had been but now with wild photos of her two old school pals. They were still laughing when the others returned but refused to say why. After a while everyone ran out of stories, the conversation started to fade, someone said it was getting too cold to hang around in swimwear, and it was time to get dressed and go. Remembering how much beer they had put away, Justin and a few others called a taxi. As they waited, Patrick got onto a shiny new Harley Davidson and Justin was surprised to see Mary climb onto the pillion. They waved as they roared off, shouting and laughing. "Patrick and Mary?" said Justin. "Oh, you have been away a long time Justin," said one of the others. "Nice bike," said Justin. "But he shouldn't be driving." "It's okay. I saw the cans. It's was low alcohol stuff they were on. "Sure looks like he's doing well. Someone said Patrick was a Celebrity Photographer," said Justin. "Well that's a nice way of putting it. Everyone round here just calls him Paparazzi Pat." |
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| Snapshot Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#14 of 14 |
| 726 words | |
| I was taking my usual morning walk around the
neighborhood looking at the houses and gardens, plus doing some important
networking. Walks are good for you. They get the heart and lungs pumping, allow
you to catch up with familiar faces, sniff the fresh breeze, and check out a
bush or patch of grass where someone has left a message, and leave a message of
your own. Yes, I'm a dog. We have brains, you know; we think. My name is Shep. Not too imaginative. Don't most of us wish we had different names than those we were given? I wish it was something I could pronounce like Ralph - Ralph, ralph, ruff, ruff, ruff, Ralph. My walk is the highlight of my day. The other twenty-three and a half hours lying around the house, bored and sleeping, chewing up things for the heck of it, turning over garbage cans, begging for food when the woman eats, and sometimes playing with the cat, are the only things that break up those long doldrums. The half an hour outside spent doing my business and running into my sniffing acquaintances is all I really have. My newest worry began with an instant camera and the cat. Oh, I like the cat. We've been together since we were puppy and kitten, but the woman caught us curled up sleeping together, took a pic, and thought it was so cute. She was going to show it to her friends, post the snapshot on the internet. Well, it would have destroyed my street cred, my standing as a tough guy in the neighborhood if it ever got out that I was pals with a kitty cat. Oh, you think dogs and cats don't look at the computer screen or TV? We do. We might feign indifference, but we do. It's just that all that stuff is so boring. But if any of my pals came across that snapshot ... well, I would never be able to hold my head up again. They all hate cats, chase cats, and would rib me unmercifully. Usually if one of 'em gets too frisky or bares their teeth, I have to show them who's who around here. If my rep took a hit, I'd have to back down with my tail between my legs ( how undignified ) or else rough 'em up a little. That might end the walks for me and it would be back yard city. As the Madame was feeding the pic into the scanner I spoke up. "Ralph, ralph, ruff, ruff, wuff, wuff, rark, rark, rark." While she peeked out the curtains to see what might be out there, I scampered back to the infernal machine, got up on my hind legs, snagged the snapshot out of there, and chewed it up. That got me scolded real good. No biggie, I'm used to it. I left the room, hurt look on my face. They like that, as if their "Bad dog!" had some effect. I grabbed the camera in case she got anymore cute ideas, and buried it upstairs in the closet under a pile of shoes that would probably be forever unworn. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. What's with the camera and the scanner? It's so 90's. Well the old lady doesn't believe in digital cameras or cell phones. A friend of hers was over once, her cell phone went off to some awful sounding tinkles, and I barked my head off. Well, I didn't know what the hell it was. After a sufficient amount of time for mommy to get over her snit, I came back down to find she was already lost in some other corner of cyberspace. I went to the kitchen, gave a perfunctory hello to the cat who seemed to be always chowing down when she wasn't licking herself. I knew better than to extend a playful paw when the catster was gobbling. My work was done, the incriminating photo was a chewed up mess. I celebrated with a good stiff drink - of cold water, naturally. Now I can still safely hold my head up and wag my tail during my walks. I know, I know. I'm a bad dog sometimes but a dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do. What? You would have done the same thing. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club