People used to say photographs stole your soul. With every click, a little more of yourself went away. Enough little clicks, and there was none of your soul left to go to the Hunting Grounds in the Sky. Perhaps they believed the person behind the camera was eating their soul. It wouldn't have been hard to believe, in the old days, when cameras flashed and poofed and sent up smoke.


And perhaps photographs do capture soul; perhaps that's why people keep so many around, even if they never look at them – so that they never lose their soul completely. Maybe that's why people change over time; they accumulate so many photographs that the souls in those photographs become part of themselves, changing who they are. Maybe there are photographically created vampires, people whose souls have been leeched away. Maybe they become photographers, stealing others' souls.





the photographer lifted his camera to his shoulder and searched for an image to capture. it was hard to find one in the city that was not covered with dirt, or worse, pigeons. he didn't like pigeons. bloody winged rats. brrr.

he looked upwards; it was nearly sunset – perhaps there would be a sky of reds and purples and oranges he could capture… no. only smog. hmm…

he headed towards the park that was located in the city's center. he wouldn't lower himself to taking pictures-on-demand on the orders of any yonk. was yonk even a word? oh well. the park was shabby. more pigeons. squirrels.

eventually he settled on taking a picture of his own shadow, stretched to a giant-like height/length by the setting sun. he'd invert it, so it would look like his shadow was made of light, with darkness all around him. a god of pictures.


Do photographs get bored? They must; forced to remain in the same position hour after hour, day after day, year after year. Are they happy when their photographs finally fade and they have freedom once more, or do they wait in terror for the day the family says, "Is this Uncle Raul or Aunt Georgina in this picture? Never mind, just throw it away"? Or do they just go on with what they were doing, not noticing the fading, because it's so gradual? Do they ever wonder what would happen if their images were allowed to move again? Would that bird fall off its perch, as it looks to at any moment? Will that snake decide that sister's neck is a lot more fun to squeeze than sister's arm? Is that ball heading toward the plate really going as fast as it seems to be?

Do photographs long for freedom?