The Story Behind the Picture.
As hard as it is for some of the younger generation to believe, there was a time when you could not instantly scrutinize, Photoshop or delete a picture. The picture taken was the picture you received when you held it in your hands a week or so later. You may find that your eyes were shut or that there was something weird going on in the background. Your mother may have been yelling at your sibling right as the camera shutter clicked or there may have been a defect in the film. Success depended a lot more on talent and patience and a bit more on luck than it does now. We have lost something by not having those “failed” pictures around. Sometimes the beauty was found in the flaws. Sometimes an entire story could be told just by looking at a picture shot off timing. As a writer, I love to look at old pictures and imagine the stories behind them. Whenever I am looking for inspiration, I browse through old photography books like the National Archives or head over to websites like the New York Public Library’s digital collections (http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/). I have posted some images I found below. What stories can you find behind the picture?
The old woman in the upstairs bedroom had told those damn kids time and time again to quit posting flyers on her tree. This time she had a little surprise waiting for them. This time the flyers would scatter across the blood-spattered snow as the boy with the hammer and nail lay writhing on the ground, his foot mangled in the jaws of a bear trap.
I was the oldest so I always got the new clothes for school. There was a part of me that felt ashamed of that. Sometimes I would grab my younger brother and slide the new shirt over his head just to make sure it reached his knees. I was looking for reassurance even as I was counting the seconds before I could remove it from his grubby body.
Did people not smile in the distant past? Surely there was some reason for happiness?
I didn't want no picture taken. What he want somethin like that for? I couldn't say no after he promised me payment though. Children wouldn't pay no attention. They lost interest after they'd found out he had nothin for 'em.
They were the best of friends through junior high. They learned how to smoke (actually smoke, not that pansy ass puffing some boys did) with each other, they bounced curse words off of each other, and they learned how to cover each other's backs when needed. This latter bit was never an issue when it was broken windows and fist fights on the playground. Only when they were older and once again gathered together did loyalty start to come into question.
This is the only picture of the men who were never found in the Muhlenberg coal mine in 1906. My father is the 5th one in line. He did come home eventually.
But he was never the same.
He waited. He no longer heard his mother crying in the back room so he assumed she had fallen asleep. He refused to move, to check on her like he always had in the past. Instead he waited. His father always came back.
Her name was Lucinda. I called her Lucy once but she gave me a look. She was the only friend I had when I was 11 and she was the only girl I knew who worked a real job like an adult.
I find that so stimulating! Reading back over my little stories, I definitely lean more to the macabre side of things. I try to be more positive in my writing but it always comes out forced and saccharine.