200 word drabble
Nov. 6th, 2003 05:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aleathielCan a drabble be 200 words? Or does it have to be 100? Or is it just a very short fic?
Anyway, a 200-word piece of writing I scribbled while waiting for my film to be developed. So it's about cameras.
He’s never owned a camera but he’s been surrounded by them all his life.
His father repaired them, his mother taught classes on using them. His sister had an obsession with photographs, papering her walls with her friends and favourite celebrities. She learnt how to use a camera, multi-lensed and manual focus, when she was twelve. She liked to record her memories for everyone.
He worked as a television journalist, living in front of motion-picture cameras, his words, his face recording current events for posterity, to be examined when no longer in living memory.
Cameras freeze time. A photograph is a memory encased in ice.
When he looks at pictures of her he sees her smile shining out of her eyes but he remembers tears and her voice raised in anger. He can‘t merge the memory with the happiness in the photograph.
He has pictures of himself, but he hates to look at them, hates to see his own face on the television screen. He knows he doesn’t look like that any more, knows there are wrinkles now and his hair is grey. He remembers being young.
He doesn’t like cameras. He likes to keep his memories inside his head.
Anyway, a 200-word piece of writing I scribbled while waiting for my film to be developed. So it's about cameras.
He’s never owned a camera but he’s been surrounded by them all his life.
His father repaired them, his mother taught classes on using them. His sister had an obsession with photographs, papering her walls with her friends and favourite celebrities. She learnt how to use a camera, multi-lensed and manual focus, when she was twelve. She liked to record her memories for everyone.
He worked as a television journalist, living in front of motion-picture cameras, his words, his face recording current events for posterity, to be examined when no longer in living memory.
Cameras freeze time. A photograph is a memory encased in ice.
When he looks at pictures of her he sees her smile shining out of her eyes but he remembers tears and her voice raised in anger. He can‘t merge the memory with the happiness in the photograph.
He has pictures of himself, but he hates to look at them, hates to see his own face on the television screen. He knows he doesn’t look like that any more, knows there are wrinkles now and his hair is grey. He remembers being young.
He doesn’t like cameras. He likes to keep his memories inside his head.
