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A story …
It’s a tiny, dead-end space within the warren of the packed-to-the-rafters antique store. Steve proudly holds out a box, a faded-pink camera within.
“A Polaroid!”
Kristy sniffs, “And film?”
Grinning, he produces a cartridge, loads it.
The camera suddenly whirs to life, spits out a dozen pictures and dies.
The first image startles Kristy, “That’s us when we first walked in!”
“This one’s me, by the vintage clothes … You screwing around …That broken mirror…”
Steve frowns, “What’s that?”
Kristy squints, “Looks cloudy. It gets bigger in each image.”
They look up, eyes widening as one last picture finally ejects.
****
Now, your turn to write a story and post it in the comments.
Wyldkat says: Once I captured laughter and sunlight, I preserved memories. I showed you yourself in ways you could only imagine. A snap of a button, flash of light, and out popped a tangible memory.
Once you took delight in lifting me up; I remember the smiles and laughter. Now you chase after other dreams, new toys, and digital ghosts. Your fancy passing as quickly as my light once did.
Today I sit alone and forgotten. The film that once captured so much slowly deteriorates inside of me. I am patiently waiting for your digital phase to pass and you to remember.
Andrew says: I have a single picture of my father when he was a young man, before he hit it big.
My mother’s mother had married a salesman. “We don’t have a lot of money,” she said, “but salesmen make excellent husbands, always looking to meet needs you didn’t know you had.”
On her twentieth birthday, my grandfather took my mother to Boscov’s to get a present. “The Polaroids move themselves,” the salesman said. “With instant film you always know if your shot was good right away. And you don’t have to worry about exposing rolls.”
“Try it out,” the salesman said.
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