Photowriting

[The idea is to write a one-post story based on a photo. When someone responds, that is - writes a story, the next one should post a photo as a response to this story, and so on.]

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He saw who he will be in the future.

“I wish you’d been a girl.” His dad had told him, but he wasn’t there when he was born. He was trading things for other things and getting high, and now his mom doesn’t want him anymore. But at least they have this place, and each other. In this blue house, with blue bedsheets and stolen mattresses, they have each other. “I won’t always treat you right. Boys should be raised a little rough, and your mom left me, so sometimes I’d punish you for that.”

“But as long as you light my cigarette - and when you’re old enough to smoke, you’ll not be with the ruffians outside, you’d do it with your old man, and we’d keep each other in moderation. You’ll learn to wash yourself, and I’ll maybe find you a bunch of other moms but they won’t stay for long. Anyways, when you’re older, when you have a picket fence and a home to go back to. Maybe we’ll still live together, maybe I’ll be dead. But you’ll think of me and you’ll think that we’ve had fun. Then I’ve raised you right.”

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“Hey gramps, who are these?” Lizzy asked holding up an old photo in black and white that had fallen out of one of the picture books she had cleaned. She held it out towards the old wrinkly bundle of a man in the wheelchair that was her mother’s father.
“Huh, whaat?” He said sleepily in the hoarse voice of elders, vocal chords ragged from near a century of use. Lizzy took the picture closer for him and he took it in his old soft hands. Then his face creased even more than normal as he smiled and hacked out a laugh.

“Ahh, That’s just a few days before that whole stadium bruned down if you believe it, it’s your mother holding the camera and this is me sitting there on the left and then it’s Sebastian in the middle, he died ten years later in a car crash in France and he who’s standing there is Tim, you met him at my sixty year celebration Anne. He moved away to the sates 5 years after this picture was taken and worked for General electric, bright bloke. He died a few years ago though in cancer.” Lizzy smiled and didn’t point out that she wasn’t her mother or that she for that matter hadn’t been born yet when her grandpa turned sixty. He usually knew who she was even if he mixed up her and her mother sometimes.

But he was 92 going for 93 so that was to be expected.

He continued to look at the picture silently for a while and then he looked up at Lizzy.
“Would you take down that book of pictures for me, I think I have one of your mother somewhere there as well, you look just like her you know.” He said smiling. Lizzy smiled and opened the book, it was the second time today, but she liked to hear these stories.

In January 1950, Pasolini moved to Rome with his mother Susanna to start a new life. He was acquitted of both indecency charges in 1950 and 1952. After one year sheltered in a maternal uncle’s flat next to Piazza Mattei, Pasolini and his 59-year-old mother moved to a run-down suburb called Rebibbia, next to a prison, for three years; he transferred his Friulan countryside inspiration to this Roman suburb, one of the infamous borgate where poor proletarian immigrants lived in often-horrendous sanitary and social conditions. Instead of asking for help from other writers, Pasolini preferred to go his own way.

Pasolini found a job working in the Cinecittà film studios and sold his books in the bancarelle (“sidewalk shops”) of Rome. In 1951, with the help of the Abruzzese-language poet Vittorio Clemente, he found a job as a secondary school teacher in Ciampino, a suburb of the capital. He had a long commute involving two train changes, and earned a meagre salary of 27,000 lire.

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You piece of shit, Serbian piece of shit, people used to call him names, he didn’t care, the old man was tough. Once they put his cat on fire, some kids from the block, they burned Miki’s tale, he was crying when he was carrying his dead body (afterwards he dug a hole in the yard). He told me once, listen, comrade (the nickname for everyone willing to speak to him), one day you will get old and you will suffer.

His daughter stopped visiting him after the graffiti thing. RAUS! She asked him why he didn’t want to leave, he told her he was too old. Where to, anyway? As long as they don’t kill me, I’ll be fine, that’s what he was saying the whole time, that old man from Serbia.

“You stay out of my pub!! And stay away from my daughter!!”

“You slag! You can’t keep me from Sandra. I love 'er!”

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“There it is, anxiety hits again. At least we can laugh at it now, right?”
“You sure can. It’s easy for you to laugh, you’ve got nothing else to do. I have to get the groceries, I have to cook, clean, take you out… You know I don’t mind, I’m just not in a mood to laugh… Sorry.”
“I told you you can leave anytime you want, I don’t expect you to sacrifice your youth for me. And staying with me because you feel sorry for my pain and my legs is the worst.”
“I would never do that, but it’s not easy for me either… Sorry, I shouldn’t complain…”
“Do you remember when I was on my first corticosteroids treatment, the doctor said they can’t predict how MS will behave and if I could walk or wipe my ass… Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember…”
“You said: I love you, and even if I don’t, I wouldn’t leave you now… That really hurt, you know?”
“I know, I’m sorry… that was poor choice of words, I think… I didn’t mean that, I just wanted to say that I will stay by your side.”
“But it’s not the point to stay by my side, the point is to want to stay by my side… can you see the difference?”
“I’m sorry…”
“Stop saying sorry, for fucks sake!”
“I’m sorry, I’ll stop. Do you need anything, I’m going to take a quick shower?”
“No, just go.”

As he was walking to the bathroom it seemed to me that he was shrugging, as he was talking to someone. I imagined him as a fucked-up little baby T-rex, with small arms but strong back. He can take a lot of pressure, but he can’t do much for real. I hated him for that. And the rest of the world as well. They all thought he was a hero, you see.

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I will tell you a secret:
Don’t ever leave me alone when someone is playing.

Some eyes I see every day may seem to me
Soft and deep.

It may seem to me that I’m falling into sounds
And I’m gonna spread my arms to anyone.

It may seem to me that
Deep in the woods
Someone is singing
Touching the wound with a bitter flower.

The yellow-jacketed man, or woman (for nobody knew its actual nature) was one of the rare figures who inhabited the intersection between criminal justice obsession and folklore. Its series of murders, spanning the late 1990s, in a selection of mid-sized Eastern American cities, left no evidence aside from dismembered corpses and photographs.

Murmurs in the true crime community paralleled those in the cryptid community – and in fact, I came to realized that these seemingly opposed groups (one known for biting materialism and rational deduction, the other for embracing uncanny, impossible explanations) had much in common, at least in their characteristic manias and wild inferences.

The photographs, of the man/woman/creature embracing its future victim, clad in that distinct yellow coat, were the cause of much speculation and consternment. Who handled the camera? Did the killer have an accomplice? Did the monster manifest these images from nothing?

“As paleontologists, we speculate on the function of ancient adaptations using the available evidence, but seeing an extinct predator caught capturing its prey is invaluable,” Illias said. “This fossilized predation confirms our hypothesis about the functioning of the mouthparts of hellish ants … The only way for prey to be captured in such an arrangement is for the ants’ mouthparts to move up and down in a different direction than that. of all and almost all living ants. insects.” Hell’s first ant was discovered about 100 years ago, Illias added, and since then, “it’s been a mystery” why they are so different from more modern ant species. If one should be discovered existent in the 21st century, pontificated Illias, then the entire biodiversity balance would be at risk.

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The children had been left with her sister for the night and finally they, Regina and Petri, had an evening for themselves. They had debated whether to go to a restaurant or cook themselves. In the end they had opted for take out.

Regina had been away for some meetings during the day so she was pleasantly surprised when she came home to a clean and decorated home. Petri had even dusted off the old bottle candle holder which was, nominally, the first bottle of wine they drank in the apartment. The reality was that they had had three identical bottles after the moving in party and only wanted one candle holder.

“I’m home lover.” She trilled. Petri walked out of their bedroom dressed in slacks and a simple white shirt with the arms artfully rolled and Regina smiled at the sight. The sight of him in those clothes still made her heart flutter ever so slightly.

“Well, hello there lover.” Petri said with a smile, “Do you want to get dressed? I have ordered food and we have some sparkling in the fridge.”
Regina went up and kissed him, patted his bottom through the slacks, nodded and went to their bedroom.

20 minutes later she walked out into the kitchen, her green evening dress on and with a quick touch up of her makeup. Petri helped her with the chair, lit the candle, poured some red wine for them both and raised his glass once he sat down.

“To making the effort.” He said. Regina smiled raised her glass and replied “And to one calm evening every once in a while.”