November 20th, 2008

Mask

Black River


Black River


I've been trying to write science fiction for a few weeks now, but all that's coming out is fantasy. Three stories with the tentative names of: Dream Callers, Waste of Steak and Fourths, all fantasy. I blame Podcastle (http://podcastle.org/) for putting out such inspirational fiction.

Filamena Young wrote this delightful short for another photo from the same shoot as the one above: Day 363: Forbidden (http://blackwell.livejournal.com/237227.html)

I did climb into a stream barefoot in a slip in November for this shoot, which some may consider to be crazy, but I consider to be fun, which should tell you a little bit on how I live my life.

Thank you Filamena, for adding your words to my photo:

"This is where he died. Right here on the rocks. My brothers killed him and his head spilled out and joined the river." She told me with a certain kind of coldness.

"I come here every year on the day we would have gotten married. I'll take our daughter here when she's old enough to understand." Her voice broke for just a minute when she talked about Hester, like alway. Like always, she went cold again a half a beat later.

"He'll show up some day." She looked away from me down at the rocks while she explained. "He'll show up to forgive me or take me back with him."

"Did you hear something?" She looked up at me, flushed all over the cheeks and chest.

I did, I heard something and looked around.