24 Jan 2013 4 Comments
He pored over the pictures after pulling them from the developing trays. These were different from his usual find of birthday parties and graduation celebrations. This looked intentional. Looked planned. Looked like arson.
He waited, as the photographs dried, wondering what he would do with them. If these images of gas cans and rags and a burned-out home were evidence, should he turn them in? What if someone had been killed in that fire? He wondered if there was any way to find out who owned the camera initially. Maybe he could do some investigating on his own. He snorted derisively at himself. He knew the thrift store where he bought the camera would never give up that information to him, an ordinary Joe Schmoe. He knew he had to turn the pictures over to the cops.
But that would definitely put an end to his voyeuristic ways. No longer could he live his life vicariously thru the snippets of film he found in cameras on dusty shelves in thrift shops and antique stores in the area. The little family he’d created from these snapshots would have to be boxed up, put away. No longer would he be able to greet his friends and neighbors that hung on his walls; no longer would he have anyone to talk to.
He knew he had to turn these photos over, but he knew, in doing so, he was killing something, too.
For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Tara Roberts at http://thinspiralnotebook.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: You buy an old camera at a thrift store, when you get it home you discover there is still film inside. Do you get it developed? If you do, what is on the film?
I gave Eric Storch at http://sinistralscribblings.com this prompt: We don’t need to be friends.
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