Thank you. I appreciate. What did you like the best? Could you let me know? I have redone it might post revison soon. Sandi
Short Story / Photographs: revision 3 (Analysis)
Photographs
What are photographs but echoes of the past? Enduring images for people to look at and contemplate in the future. I am sitting at my dining room table sifting through a box of old pictures, and feeling the draft through the minute cracks of antiquity. Outside the kitchen window, the snow has blanketed the surroundings. Every now and again, I hear the winds breath rattle the shutters. I have built up a nice, hot fire on the grate and am lulled by the sizzle of the logs. Jinx, my white kitten, paws at a yellow ball of yarn that I am sure belonged to my mother before her hands became too crippled to crochet. I call to him, and clap my hands, but he ignores me and continues leaping and swiping at his make-shift toy. I take my time spreading out the many faces out on the table. I study them closely, trying hard to find myself in them. Most of the faces I see belong to my kin, or are somehow closely connected to them.
My eyes fall on an old black and white photo of my Aunt Rachel sitting at the table with a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer in the other. Her kinky dark hair is in stark contrast to her pale face. I remember my mother once telling me that my Aunt had written for "True Story Magazine.” But that everything she’d written about her life was a lie. I wonder now if that mattered. I am certain there were some truths mixed in with the lies. One just had to take the time look beyond the obvious. Sometimes I think the truth lies in the subtle or obscured things we don’t notice at first glance. A photograph is a kind of mirror image that remains unchanged, yet one never knows what the camera misses, or what might be embedded within the picture itself. I study an 8x10 black and white photo of my mother as a young girl. She is standing in what looks like an open field. There is a hint of a smile on her lips, but it is the eyes that capture my attention. I see a kind of sadness within their dark depths. The camera has recorded a certain nakedness about her that is rarely seen in life. But what one doesn’t notice at first glance is the little gray markers far off in the distance; behind her, over the hill, my great Uncle’ Floyd lies under a fresh mound of earth. He was only 13 when he’d carried his buckets of raspberries onto the bridge in London Kentucky. He was on his way to the market to sell them. Halfway across the bridge, a car swerved and struck him with such force that the buckets of raspberries went flying through the air, and onto the windshield of the car. My mind conjures a picture of the scattered berries smashed, their juice streaking red down the blacktop, mingling with Uncle Floyd’s blood. My mother said a little African American boy held my uncle's head in his lap until he died. Later, he’d told the police that the man who’d struck Uncle Floyd had told the crowd that the boy he’d hit was nobody: just some little beggar. Of course the photograph doesn't go beyond the obvious. Instead, it recorded the aftermath of grief my mother’s face. I guess photographs don’t tell the whole story, only a part of it.
I look at the picture of my Uncle Ralph smiling beside his 57 Chevy. He was a handsome man. His slicked back hair reminds me of Elvis Presley in his early days. He has a wide smile on his face. It dawned on me that a year after this was taken he was killed by a woman’s jealous husband. A part of this woman is in the picture. I can see piece of her polka-dotted dress and an arm. I’d always wondered what the rest of her looked like. My mother said that her name was Hazel, and that she was pretty. I think of Aunt Rachel’s colorful version of the wake, which had the woman slinking into the funeral home wearing a black dress and veil. The moment she saw Uncle Ralph in the casket she’d started wailing loudly, eventually, throwing herself conspicuously across the casket nearly knocking it over. I think of the years that I had pondered the scene, believing it until mother told me that it never happened, and that Aunt Rachel had written it that way for True Story. I laugh aloud hearing my voice break the stillness.
My picture is next to Uncle Ralphs. I am all hair and eyes, looking bewildered in the shadows of a green holly tree with the red berries. This picture was taken in Grandpoppy’s yard. I think I was 11 years-old then. Behind me, there runs a wide creek where I used to play. My eyes search for some signs of it in the picture, but see only me and the shadows. I never smile in photographs. The reason is not a mystery. I have never liked the look of me smiling and showing my teeth. How peculiar to think that in the future, someone may see the photo and conclude that I am an unhappy person. Hopefully they will realize that a photograph only captures a second of someone’s life and does not speak for their fundamental nature.
I had forgotten about the photo of my grandmother. It had been at the bottom of the box. I marvel at her china doll loveliness against a backdrop of black and white. But her eyes with their odd specs of bright light look strangely inhuman. Her hair is a mass of thick curls, light in color, spilling over round shoulders and unto the white throat, where white lace frames her slender neck. I think of how fragile she looks here. But according to what others have said about her the photo is an illusion. She’d raised two boys and three girls, and had spent most of her summer days in the fields. When she wasn’t in the fields, she was cooking large meals and taking care of the family. My father said she’d worked like a man.
The tiny patter of Jinx footfalls beside my chair causes me to look up. He remains engrossed in the ball of yarn. His little paw strikes it from different angles, rolling it across the lustrous wooden floor. Behind him, the flames grow smaller upon the grate.
Outside my window, the flurries spiral and dance softly through the darkening evening. I think how deceptively fragile and lovely they look. But in the distance, the surroundings are covered with their accumulation. The trees are sheathed in white, “The branches bow, as if with respect to the wind, but in truth, simply tired of carrying the piles of white. In my neighborhood, driveways are completely buried in a sea of brilliant white. Days from now, the winter sun will assist the earth in melting the fluff, turning it into to a dirty slush. Nothing stays pretty forever unless it has been captured on film, then it is eternal if well kept.
Turning back to the pictures, I come upon a close-up of him. My breath catches in my throat, I’d almost forgotten about the photo. But then I remembered that it was I who took it. Time had aged it of course. “There is a line worn in the paper that distorts the bottom half of his face. Perhaps, some child had gotten a hold of it and creased it. I wonder who or what he saw that was more important than me. I remember sitting on the edge of the porch with the camera, calling his name. My mother was off in the distance, and refused to stand near him. Her excuse was that she hated having her picture taken. In retrospect, I think she’d hated him. I wish that I had. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have missed him so much after he left. My mother never understood what I saw in him. I thought of the little red heart he had drawn me before he left. He’d printed my name in big letters in its center. He’d said, “This is my heart; Keep it and never forget that you are loved.
Sometimes, in the night, he comes to me; his handsome face all alight with love. But just as I reach for him, his image melts like a snowflake in my hand. My mother had called him a habit that I would eventually break. In a sense, she was right; with the passing of years his memory faded like his picture. In those early days of my grief, I had comforted myself with the photo and even framed it. I’d placed it inconspicuously amidst a sea of others on a table in the corner of my living room.” I’d wanted to remember him, but my mother wanted to forget. Had he ever loved me? I wonder. I would never know. I don’t remember why or when I’d dismantled the photo.
Jinx skitters across the floor with a thump. I turn to see that he has lost the ball of yarn. With hackles raised, he paws at the shadow underneath the bookshelf. I rise long enough to retrieve the elusive ball. ”I do wish you could talk.” I say, rolling the ball of yellow yarn across the floor. But Jinx ignores me, and happily goes back to his toy. Outside the wind picks up stirring the trees. I listen to the bang of the shutters and the hissing log. It seems that all sounds are more pronounced in the deep silence of the dining room. My eyes fall once again to his photograph and search it for some hidden meaning. I try to connect some part of myself to him, but realize that whatever thread held us together is long gone. My hand reaches inside the box and touches paper. Perplexed, I withdraw it and recognize the big red heart, now faded like his photograph. Faded like his promise of love. What is a promise but a breath of wind that bangs at the shutters and then disappears? When had I placed it there? I realize that my romantic visions of him had died long ago and were as cold as the pile of discarded ashes in the snow. Jinx nudges my foot and I look down to see that he has finally managed to unravel the yarn and has it strewn everywhere. In the grate, the low flames flicker casting light on the photographs. I hold his heart in my left hand. A mere promise of love on paper and an echo of the past like the photographs. Without further thought, I fling it in the fire, watching his words and turn black.
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testarossa_94 reviewed Version 4 -
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I like how you are describing things in your story. It really helps me visualize what’s happening
When you have the sentence, “I am all hair and eyes…” revise that. It sounds odd.
I love how you describe the tree’s branches as if having respect for the wind! It’s absolutely brilliant!
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Rowan_Darkheart_Herring reviewed Version 3 -
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I got chills! it was really amazing
xPoeticDistract reviewed Version 4 -
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After you enter the thing about antiquity you should enter the thing about photographs . Also are you allowed to submit a piece published on Urbis to a contest?
steelblue71 reviewed Version 4 -
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I liked the description and tone of the piece, but you wanted critique. So here goes.
Well, grammatically speaking, there’s an apostrophe after Uncle in the second paragraph. A couple of missing commas, like in ‘Time had aged it, of course.’ There’s also a double paragraph in here, starting with “Turning back to the pictures.” I’m sure you’ve been notified of that already, though.
The fragment is slightly irritating in ”...my Aunt had written for “True Story Magazine.” But that everything she’d written about her life was a lie.” I think it’d be better to combine the two and leave us without the awkward start to the sentence.
Uncle Ralph’s ‘57 should have an apostrophe in it. Another comma missing in: “that a year after this was taken, he was killed by a woman’s jealous husband.”
Hope this helps a bit. If the formatting was fixed a little towards the bottom, it’d be a little easier to edit…a splendidly melancholy piece to read.
ajodom reviewed Version 3 -
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This was an interesting telling. I get where you were going with it. I’m not sure if you want it to be marketed as it doesn’t exactly fit what I’ve read about how stories and novels should be, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I assume the one person at the end was the father of the protagonist. The way the memory of him were told is very powerful and well written.
I don’t have much here to nitpick about. The grammar was good, and you did a really good job of staying in the present tense, something that is difficult to do.
Good Luck.
ChantMart reviewed Version 4 -
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I think this is very good, I can’t help you with the spelling mistake, or grammar, because my first language is french, but I like the way the story unfold from a picture, it is a very original idea, and I like it.
We have go admit that in real life, each of the photograph we have, triggers something different for each person who see it.
As it was so well describe in your text.
Chantale.
rollingbolus reviewed Version 4 -
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the snow --- you could lose ‘the’ here
spreading out the many faces out on the table --- too many ‘outs’, if you omit the first one it’ll sound better
across the casket nearly knocking --- across the casket, nearly knocking
conspicuously --- just my opinion, but I’m not sure you need this word as there’s no way she wouldn’t be visible anyway, given the circumstances: you could say something about the manner in which she did it e.g. forlornly/dramatically (although I’m sure there are better words than those)
on film, then it is eternal --- on film, and can only be eternal if…
“There is a line --- you don’t need this quotation mark…...but you do need one here: never forget that you are loved”
my living room.” --- and not here
has it strewn --- has strewn it?
left hand. A mere promise of love on paper and an echo of the past like the photographs --- left hand, a mere promise of love on paper and an echo of the past, like a photograph
Without further thought --- again, just my opinion, so feel free to ignore this…..but I think if you replaced this, used a bit of repetition from the preceding sentence, and made the line read something like the following, it might be more powerful: I hold his heart and fling it into the fire, watching the words shrivel to black.
I think you only have a little bit of proof-reading to go before this is ready. It reads well and works well as a mood piece. I like the comparisons you draw between the passing of snow and the passing of time, the frozen time of the photographs. Also, the comparison you draw between the unseen burden of the old woman who worked like a man, and the burden of the branches unseen beneath the weight of snow, was this intentional?
It’s poignant and connects emotionally with the reader.
well done Sandi! good luck with it in the contest, I sure you’ll do well
Dominic
gemglitter reviewed Version 4 -
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Comments: I love photography, and this piece really embodies it. All your details about a picture and that split second moment were true. Your descriptions were superb. I love how you took the time to describe the initial surroundings, and then the photograph surroundings. Really does a good job contrasting. Here are my fave lines!:
What are photographs but echoes of the past?—Never thought about that and great provoking first line.
certain nakedness about her that is rarely seen in life—-love how your wrote this and pointed it out.
Suggestions: Thought I would point out that you have a few bits of ”” marks that doesn’t fit around dialogue. I don’t know if this is urbis or what. Here are some suggestions:
A part of this woman is in the picture.—I would mention her before the chevy. She is important and I think would be the first thing noticed by the character.
onto the white throat—This line confused me. What are you trying to say. Throat is a harsh description and the following line uses neck.
I am sitting at my dining room table sifting through a box of old pictures….—I would mention quickly, almost a throw away line, some pictures of non-importance. Perhaps a few people she didn’t remember now, something that gives detail because this line reads a bit blah compared to the rest of your piece.
The camera has recorded a certain nakedness ….—I love the line, but for some reason I think there is a disconnect between her and the story. Perhaps have the marker in the picture, but as a speck. All the other pictures hint to their story, the father not completely involved in the picture taking, the woman in the picture…etc
My mother said a little African American boy—You could add some detail to this line about the mom by adding dialogue. Is her mother politically correct or not? How did she say it?
TirzahLaughs reviewed Version 4 -
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This 258 word review has not been unlocked.
MoSanchez reviewed Version 4 -
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To me, this story is almost perfect as is. I’m definitely not an expert, especially in grammar; but below are a couple of notes I took while reading it.
This line:
“spilling over round shoulders and onto the white throat, where white lace frames her slender neck..” I’m thinking you meant, ‘onto her white throat’? I’d also try to use a different adjective other than white. You use it twice, back to back in the same sentence, and it could possibly be redundant.
“Outside the wind picks up stirring the trees.” To me, there is a natural pause here, I’d add the comma. “Outside the wind picks up, stirring the trees.”
Again, I’m no expert, so I’m not sure how helpful my review is, but I wish you well with your contest. Well done.
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