Between some computer issues and just not feeling right about how everything was fitting, I am finally setting this loose upon the world. Far from perfect I think it still represents what I was trying to do, albeit not as successfully as I had hoped it would. The idea of Stone made Flesh was my own fault, but I will not back down from a challenge. So at long last here it is.
Shutter
There is an existence outside of love, which mirrors life and shadows death. It was a thought that had crossed his path many times before this day and yet it still held the same effect upon his mind, within his heart. One can indeed exist without love, not just simply through the act of causing existence via a moment of loveless self-indulgence, but in cutting oneself off from the emotional templates by which we are all pre-programmed to fall victim to. He convinced himself that he had mastered his own flesh born maladies, however the victory was shallower now than ever before. He was a victim of his own design; a gargoyle now watching over his own cathedral of gods that he alone had fashioned.
The wars raging within his heart and mind were nothing compared to the battles being staged before his eyes. The problems of man can never be solved by metal. The problems of man need to be addressed with mettle. He could no longer watch the living eyes of the dead through the camera that he tightly grasped with shaking hands. He found himself moving as if in slow motion as once solid ground rose all around him, showering him in a crematory compost of recently living men.
The sights he saw alluded to no God that he could fathom, perhaps Stephen Hawking was correct and life has come to pass much like a bubble being blown into form without the luxury of a being to expend the air to do so.
There was no sun in this world that he desperately tried to live through. The smoke and ash all around him, thundering noise and gut wrenching screams were all that consumed his senses. He still clutched his camera and decided to do his best to only view the reality around him through the small view piece; as long as it was viewed from the camera, he hoped to distance himself from each horrific scenario that was not only captured upon the film, but also viciously carved into his mind. He wanted nothing more than to stop taking pictures. He was unable to. The click was the only noise he recognized that tied him to the world he knew.
He found himself running through a small town as buildings, once solid and strong, now showered down upon him and crumbled in defeat. The bodies of innocent men lay scattered amongst the stone walkways. He stumbled as a fresh new hell began its descent all around him, an unmistakable roar of plane engines now echoed nearer and the sound of the blasts from tanks grew more thunderous than ever as their treads creaked them ever closer. A scream suddenly made its way to his ears and he found himself inexplicably running towards it. He eventually stopped and viewed the carnage all around him as he stood upon the steps of a small, yet beautiful old stone church. It was untouched. He stepped nearer to the doors and without thought took the picture before it reached his own realization. The body of a woman was blocking his entry. The body and clothes were tattered, seemingly by the blasts. Her right hand still clutching the door handle, as her body slumped against the door itself. A pool of blood could be seen in front of her, yet no injury could be discerned that was large enough to have created it…until he moved her.
Again he pushed his finger down and captured another moment he would rather never see again. Now lying sprawled to the side of the chapel doors the disturbing truth was blatant and cruel. The woman was pregnant. Her stomach was ripped open by pieces of debris, some still could be seen in her flesh, and all that was once held inside of her found its way unnaturally out. Two lives fell in this one spot. His hands shaking, he reached for the doors, pulled and proceeded to walk inside.
The rest of the towns’ people awaited him in the sanctuary. Blood was everywhere. Death did not care who it came to this day, as children and the elderly were clearly fair game. No one lived under this holy roof. He sickeningly turned over the word sanctuary in his mind. Thoughts that he had held back for years too numerous to count suddenly came crashing through the dam he had fashioned; the blond hair of his wife now tinged with the red that flowed from around her as she lay lifeless upon the kitchen floor. A wine bottle smashed against the wall and candles long since burned down to their end. His anger rose as he remembered. He then saw his son; clutching the bear he was given for his third Christmas, eyes wide open in terror and his neck opened wider still. The fury he once forced away rushed back. The rage wanted to take hold of him for the unanswered loss, the needless violence. He wanted to scream but he choked upon the sorrow that filled him. He wanted to blame God…he wanted to as he had done so many years before this. He felt that he was justified and he wanted to blame God for it all, yet this day he simply could not.
This day was different, for this day he had watched man do this to fellow man. He had seen it all around him all day long. There was no God causing these men to take these actions, these were actions born of manmade desire and so-called duty; a flesh born fallacy of mans self-imposed importance. Tears overtook him and he dropped to his knees. He never knew the words before to pray, but as the roar of the plane engines came overhead his mouth found the words. His once fortified heart now beat in song. He had never before had such a moment of perfect peace, as the whistling sounds drew nearer all around him. A smile came across his face and he turned the camera on himself before dropping it at his side. The explosions shook the building loose and it soon caved in on top of him and covered all those around him. A small ray of sunshine found its way through a small parting of the clouds and rested upon the fallen stones.
- j.g. smith (05/23/09)
2 comments:
I like this. There are a few awkwardly worded sentences, but that's more an editing/proofreading thing . . . what works is the action of a man connected to reality through his camera.
I think the story really begins with "He found himself moving as if in slow motion . . ." The preamble does nothing to draw the reader in so should, perhaps, be placed in a different part of the story? Or worked in at various relevant points? The figure of a man, moving through carnage taking pictures is interesting and grabs the attention in a way the commentary preceding it doesn't (concrete over abstract to draw in).
That having been said, I think the section when he flashes back to his own tragedy needs to either be expanded or cut. For a postcard story, it would work well without that. For a longer story, you might want to do something more with that aspect of the photographer? Don't know. Just a suggestion.
This is interesting. Yep. I like the metal/mettle play on words, but maybe worked on a little and inserted later? To make a bigger punch?
Working with metaphors taken from sculpture and applied to someone taking pictures is interesting, too. Maybe even make a little more of this connection?
I really like the "click was the only noise he recognized that tied him to the world he knew." Really brings it home. And involves the reader in what is happening to the character without having to say a great deal about it.
Hey a comment finally arrived :P
I still have trouble making so few words more cohesive...although I still like what I have here...may actually flesh out a full story some time with it.
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