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November 3, 2005

Volume 8, Issue 3

There is a box of photos sitting in a garbage dumpster.

Write from the point of view of either the person who threw the photos away or the person who finds them.

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D: Girls On Film

I go through maybe two, three spools of film a day just on her alone. Digital is supposedly more convenient but that satisfying shutter click and the skill required to hit the F-stops and focal distances just right; digital will never beat that. And the chemical smells when we're alone in the dark together, just her and me; the pictures fade up in the red glow and...

Wait... in this latest batch she's staring right at the camera. She's staring right at me! Christ, maybe she knows. Maybe she's known all along.

I'd better get rid of these and fast.

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Ted: Inheritance

Dad never smoked cigars, but he had a great humidor. Beautiful, rosewood, shiny brass fittings, very heavy. I was nine when Dad died, but Mom didn't give me the key until my thirteenth birthday.

I opened the box up in my room, alone, like Dad said to do in his will.

The photographs were amazing. Places out of storybooks were suddenly alive in my hands.

On the very bottom of the stack was a photo of my Dad, as a boy, standing in front of a huge fountain.

All I left in that room was water splashed on the floor.

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