Flipping Through Flickr (Part 2)

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The following “shorts” have all been written in response to a photo whose link has been provided.

 

#1  –  https://www.flickr.com/photos/evanatwood/7092839051/

As I stood there I began counting, slowly in my head. I waited to hear their footsteps ringing against the concrete paths or the creaking of boots on twigs. Six Mississippi…seven Mississippi…eight Mississippi…just as children did when hiding in the bushes, nervously awaiting their discovery.

My friends would not come this day to find me. They had all been taken earlier in the week.  Marco while he was feeding the elephants, Laria when cooking for her two children…they weren’t taken but killed. We all heard the shots that day; we knew it would happen, they would never take those with children.

Nine Mississippi…ten Mississippi… I knew they were coming. I tried to warn the others but they would not listen. Now I am alone, waiting for those who will never return. I am curious, is it worth it to stay between these wooden slats awaiting the inevitable with nothing left to hold onto?

I loved her, Laria and I knew I could not save her…

…The snapping of twigs sounded in front of me. I had lost count like everyone else.

Now I would join them.

 

#2  –  https://www.flickr.com/photos/lissyl/5700338135/

Everything is always so fuzzy these days. It must be because of all the white. Yes, I think that’s it. And it is so difficult to make out what is in front of me. Its rough having to watch out for all of these doorways and low hanging ceilings, I am always afraid it’ll get caught on them. I have already lost little bits of the edges and small tufts to birds. They do so like the pearlescent reflection it gives off in the sunlight. It is quite blinding if you ask me and is why I tend to avoid crossing busy streets if I can.

This can be very tough on Sundays seeing as the grocery store is down on Fifth Avenue and I have to cross through Market Square and Evergreen Walk. Anyways, I forget how I came across this little thing. It is quite comfortable, until I am sad of course. Then it lifts to somewhere just above my head instead of encapsulating my face, which helps with my vision of course, but not with my hair. You see it rains during those times. It turns all sorts of dark colors and just starts sprinkling overhead. Heavens knows why but I think it is crying some days.

 

#3  –  https://www.flickr.com/photos/nicholasscarpinato/8323305481/

I think mine is different. Yes it must be…it must have some type of dot or mark somewhere that makes it so. I should check or maybe ask the fellow to my left. If only I knew his name, then again there are many of us here. I could shout out a random name, a popular one and hope someone responds to it. If I can maybe peek up my head a bit without knocking over someone else’s sombrero we shall be fine.

Oh now everyone looks the same, except maybe him in the corner, he could be a Jim I think.

Come to think of it these are not sombreros at all! I have been tricked. I am sure that I signed up for sombrero time away in this square but these are surely all cowboy hats! Not the fancy ten gallons either. Oh my, what shall I do for myself? I am never letting Kyle sign me up for these again he always gets them wrong. Hmm…well, they are very comfy at least and I should have noticed this when I put it on. NO WONDER THEY ALL LOOKED THE SAME. Of course, no two cowboy hats would look different. It is simply not done.

 

#4  –  https://www.flickr.com/photos/laurennicole81/14215097250/

The light over the sign flickered. Its dim sheen over the closed sign gave it a gouty impression. Whoever had written it clearly had too much time on their hands and didn’t know any other form of script other than Comic Sans. The letters from the roof had long since been removed. Each had left an imprint of disturbed shingles rotting away in its place.  The letters would have spelled Pawn Shop had the N not been so mangled, no doubt by a nest of birds living in it. Instead it spelt Pawl Shop.

At night the garage door entrance creaked. The rust visible on its edges made it a wonder that it ever could have opened. Maybe it had been a beautiful trading spot. The sky grew grey and pale; the day would start again soon. Perhaps for the better.

 

#5  –  https://www.flickr.com/photos/-oliviabee-/15001573652/

They lay there, still, against the shaded cool concrete. The sun was just beginning its morning duties. The small streaks of light glinting off the water droplets. The sprinklers had kicked on at about four. They had been here since two, too tired and elated to move back into the house. The night before she had asked him not to leave. He had been hurt, and scared, but only made it as far as the driveway. She asked him not to leave. He didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to part from her so instead they had sat crying on the pavement of her driveway. His hardened façade holding and her tears pouring until they could laugh. Until they could bring themselves to hold each her once more. They had grown tired in their embrace but continued it by laying together on the cold slab beneath themselves. Their tears and anguish had been heat enough to make the floor seem comfortable. Now with their bodies against each other they slept comfortably, next to the white lilies and purple butterfly bush they had planted together two summers ago.

 

#6  –  https://www.flickr.com/photos/lissyl/4346841192/

She could fly, she was convinced. There was something in her that told her so and tugged at her to try. Her mind complained of a lack of wings and feathered upbringing but that wasn’t enough to stop her. “Well, penguins have both of those and they can’t fly either!” she would tell herself.

At night she would try, at least to see if it was plausible. First she would jump, as high as she could. She assumed her feet could reach no higher than the edge of her bedframe, she was right. Then she began to take running starts before flinging herself into bed at nights. She would revel in the few seconds of lift before she came crashing down in a ruffle of linen sheets.

Next she practiced spreading her arms out. It made a difference, she was sure, that is why birds must do it. For weeks she attempted in these small ventures. She used different angles, different positions, she would come at the bed sideways, she would try twisting in the air. Each time she fell flat. All the methods that ran through her mind turned up short. Yet she tried one last time. She closed her eyes and threw herself into the air above her bed. Her hair became suspended and her limbs refused to touch the covers. She kept her eyes shut and reveled in the weightlessness of her mind.

Hannah Noriega

About Hannah Noriega

An English major from Connecticut attending the University of Maine, Hannah decided to live in Maine for the adventure. Seeing as Mainers share her love for hiking, kayaking, rock climbing, and everything outdoors, it has proved to be the perfect fit.