Captured Memories

I'd initially thought I would write one story a evening, so I'd have a huge collection of really short stories. That, it seems, proved a rather romantic ideal. So I'm just going to settle for writing them when I can without judgment about what the stories are like.

It had been a decidedly drizzly day, and as such, Michael was a bit surprised to see the table laid out at the edge of the sidewalk. It was a standard affair - brown folding table covered with a dingy white cloth, and a staggering array of knick-knacks spread to cover every possible square inch of space. There were little jade buddhas and red resin dragons, Chinese medicine balls lacquered and polished until they glowed. Crystal prisms locked bubbles into intricate arrays, such that they resembled the New York skyline or the Empire State Building, dimly illuminated in reds and greens by cheap LED lights. Exotic wooden statuettes, perhaps African in origin or at least emulation, sat in a watchful row at the back of the table. At their feet rested lines and lines of hardwood lockets, each carved to resemble a heart, each in a different color or shape.

He had seen their like a hundred times, all over New York, and was ready to pass without a second glance when something caught his eye.

The instant camera was old - a white Polaroid SX-70, near as he could tell - and it bore the many dings, dents, and scratches that testified to the passage of decades. A fingerprint smudged over its right side - a grease stain, perhaps, that had gone uncleaned for too long. Its many whorls and eddies stood out from the white plastic as though etched in.

Michael adjusted his own camera sling around his neck and leaned in for a closer look. The camera overlooked a neat square of pictures - the very type you might get from such an instant shot. They were stills for the most part, although with a quality of motion he couldn't quite nail down. A birthday cake with ten candles that barely illuminated the numerous ghostly, grinning faces. Morning sunshine blazing through an open window, with a mist-clung forest hanging just beyond. Twilight on an unnamed beach - two pairs of footprints could be seen winding their way across the frame.

"Do you like them?"

Michael turned, startled, toward the man standing behind the table. He had somehow entirely overlooked his presence, but of course the man had been there the whole time. His face was the color of burnt mahogany, the deep lines stretching across it almost vanishing into the darkness of his skin. His hair was long and ashy gray, woven into tight braids with colorful wooden beads interspersed into the locks at random intervals. Most arresting, however, were his eyes - they were the color of a cloudless sky, clear and icy and penetrating.

"Are you selling the photos?" Michael asked.

The merchant smiled and shook his head.

"How much for the camera, then?"

He shook his head again. "The camera is not for sale."

"I'm not sure I understand. Why are these on display if you're not selling them?" Michael gestured at the neat rows of photographs.

"They are an example of the work that I can do."

Michael looked down at the photographs again, feeling a slow irritation creeping up his chest at this roundabout sale. They were all obviously quite old - most of them had yellowed, even browned, with age, and most were touched by what looked like burn marks at their edges. nevertheless, they were excellent photos, all clearly captured with a professional eye for composition and the emotional moment. There was a liveliness about them, a feeling of animation he couldn't quite understand; the candles on the birthday cake almost seemed to flicker.

"It's decent work," Michael muttered. "Though if you're a photographer this is kind of an odd way to advertise, isn't it?"

"You are interested."

"Well," Michael paused. Then, "The SX-70 is pretty cool. You can do some interesting effects with an instant-shot camera."

"Interesting, yes. That is a word for it." The merchant smiled. "You are a photographer, I see."

"Yeah." Michael's hand reflexively went for his own Canon EOS 1D Mark III, safely tucked away in the camera bag slung around his neck. A top-of-the-line SLR, it had cost him nearly five grand, and was a far cry from the simple-looking Polaroid sitting on the table.

"For how long?"

"All my life, I guess," Michael smiled, half to himself. "Ever since Dad left a disposable lying around on my sixth birthday. I've always had a thing for capturing the moment."

"Ahh, yes," the merchant smiled, revealing two gleaming rows of very white teeth. "This I understand. I, too, have found my life's work in capturing memories." He gestured toward the neat rows of photographs.

Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably. Without looking at the merchant, he picked up the picture of the birthday cake and feigned professional interest.

There was a moment of disorientation, and then the sun was setting, splashing the clouds with rose and gold even as the eastern sky darkened to violet. It was extremely hot outside, and muggy too. Summer had come early to Shreveport, bringing with it the kind of weather that usually gave Charlie LeMont a headache in the afternoons and drew in clouds of mosquitos dense as morning fog from the swamps. The new dress she had gotten just for today stuck to her skin with wetness. She wanted to throw it off, but everyone had thought she looked so beautiful wearing it that she also wanted to keep it on just a little bit longer. She had made one concession (that was a new word, meaning compromise, sort of) to the weather, and that had been to take off her shoes. Her feet were now streaked and smudged with green. She'd forgotten when she ran inside to fetch the new books she'd gotten, and Maw-maw had yelled very loudly that the stains would never come out of the carpet. It had been the one bad moment on what was otherwise the best day ever, and Maw-maw apologized only moments later, rubbing her hair and calling her Boo when she saw just how sorry she was.

"Here, I got you a drink."

Her best friend appeared out of nowhere and handed her a cup filled to the brim with strawberry kool-aid. Vicky (don't ever call her Victoria, or she'll knock you to the ground and pound you) was wearing her best pair of jeans and a black tank top - it wasn't the best party wear, but her parents couldn't really afford any more. What did clothes matter between best friends, anyway?

"Thanks," Charlie took the cup and drank deeply.

"You know who I saw the other day in your neighborhood?" Vicky asked, grinning from ear to ear.

"Who?"

"Walter Scott!"

"Ewww! He's such a little snot!" Charlie felt a flash of indignation. "What was he doing over here?"

"He was with his parents. They were looking at the Schumachers' house. I think they're going to buy the place!"

"Oh no!" She nearly dropped her punch. "I don't want him living down the road from me! That means we'll have to use the same bus stop!"

She remembered, with a shiver down her spine, the time Walter had filled her desk with wriggling black caterpillars during recess. It'd taken Mrs. Kline half an hour to calm her down enough that she could go back to reading her social studies. Walter had gotten a week's worth of detention, but Charlie still couldn't approach her desk without getting the willies.

"Yeah. You'd better watch your back, Charlie," Vicky made a face and squiggled her fingers in imitation of crawling caterpillars.

"Stop it! That's not funny, Vicky!" She slapped her friends hands away in disgust.

"I think he'd stop doing it if you'd just punch him in that snotty red nose of his," Vicky leaned back, grinning. "The boys never expect us to fight back, for some reason."

"I can't hit him!"

"Why not?"

"I'm not...I just can't," she replied, biting her lip. "I'm not strong like that."

"Yes you are. You told off Mrs. DeVille that time she wanted to give me detention for fighting, even though I hadn't been." Vicky put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief squeeze. "You don't have to pound them, Charlie. Figure something out. You're smart enough. I only hit them because I don't know how to do it any other way."

She smiled at Vicky, then leaned into the hug. "I wish you weren't going away."

"Me too." Then, softly, "Promise you'll write?"

"Well of course!" Charlie was suddenly indignant again. "You even have to ask?"

"And you'll come visit?"

"Of course I will! Why wouldn't I?"

"Los Angeles is so far away..."

"That's not going to stop me!" She said fiercely. "We're best friends, right?"

"Best friends!" Vicky beamed at her.

And they hugged in the shade of the pine trees as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. At that moment, Mamma came out of the patio doors, carrying the biggest, pinkest cake she had ever seen. Ten candles were glowing brightly from its top, and the peach-colored icing read, "Happy 10th Birthday, Charlie!" Everyone was singing and clapping as the cake found its place onto the huge white table that had been set out in the yard.

"Make a wish, Charlie!" Vicky shrieked at her, clapping her hands.

I wish we'll be best friends forever. She thought, and blew out the candles.

And then Michael was standing on the sidewalk, with rain now falling in misty sheets from the colorless sky. His heart was pounding, and he could still feel the heat of the candles on the cake, the smell of charred wax as the flames flickered out into darkness.

"What...what the hell was that?" He hadn't moved in all that time, but he was breathless, his heart beating a rapid staccato in his chest.

The merchant smiled, "A memory, captured."

Michael stared at him, paling.

"It is what I do, after all. Just like you."

Michael stare at him, throat suddenly dry. He swallowed, hard, and asked, "How?"

"A secret, and an ancient one," the merchant replied. "One never spoken, not even in whispers, until the time comes that it must be passed on."

"Passed on?" Even in disbelief, he felt his heart leap, once. "What do you mean?"

"You are not dense, so do not pretend ignorance. You know exactly what I mean."

"To me. You mean you want to give this...this ability to me."

"No."

"No?"

"The ability is yours already. Its facets shine through in all of your work. I only offer to...open your eyes to your full potential, if you will."

His thoughts swam, a thousand denials and objections racing through his head that what he had experienced couldn't be real. Such things didn't exist. It was insane to think they did. The merchant was insane to tell him as much. He was insane to even think it might be true...

But then he thought of Charlie, and of Vicky, of the smell of that Louisiana summer and the warm glow of the candles on that beautiful pink birthday cake.

He looked up at the merchant, who was looking at him with understanding in his eyes.

"What's the catch?"

The merchant smiled, his expression turning both pleased and sad.

"To capture memories requires dedication to the moment. You would have to give up certain things."

"Like what?"

"Childhood. Family. Friends. Love."

Michael gaped at the merchant, then barked a laugh. "Not asking much, are you?"

"I don't make the rules."

"There are rules?"

"There are always rules. None will know of this ability, or how you received it, save what can be expressed in that moment of memory, the sweet or the bitter tang that touches the viewer's soul. What fame and profit you may gain will be ever fleeting, coming and leaving like the tides. Lovers you may have, and a passing satisfaction in them, but true love will flee from you as night from the dawn. And when the time comes, you will stand alone in the twilight of your years, and find what meaning you can by kindling the flame in others."

"You really don't know how to sell this very well, do you?" Michael asked. "No money, no recognition, no love. I have to abandon everything that's ever mattered to me. Why the hell would I do something like that?"

The merchant was quiet for several moments, then said. "You are right - no money, no recognition, no love. You must abandon everything that's ever mattered to you." He paused, then said. "But once, every so often, you will know true happiness. True fulfillment. The moments and the memories that you capture shall spread as the seeds of the dandelion spread, and endure as mountains and oceans endure. Whether happiness, sorrow, violence, beauty, love, or hate - what you sow will influence and impact lives beyond number."

Michael stared at him, speechless.

"Do I...do I have to answer now?"

The merchant nodded. "You, of all people, must understand the importance of the moment lost."

"You can't...it's too much to ask. You can't expect me to-"

"I expect nothing. Only you know what you truly want."

Another pause.

"As enduring as mountains and seas?" Michael asked.

"And as far as dandelion seed."

Michael was silent for a while. Then, "Yes." And in that answer he became aware of a vast release, as though sky and earth together had exhaled. Or maybe it had just been him, who had been holding his breath without realizing.

The merchant looked at him, then nodded expressionlessly. "Be sure it is what you really want."

Michael smiled. "You talk as though I really had a choice."

"You always have a choice."

"I guess that depends on your point of view."

The merchant smiled, then took Michael's head in his hands. Michael felt a sudden lightness, a peculiar sort of release, as though he'd unclenched a muscle he didn't even know he had. Then the merchant picked up the instant camera and began snapping pictures. Click. His grandmother's rose garden, blooming in spring. Click. The time he hid his sister's Barbie in kitty litter. Click. Gliding down the hill without training wheels for the first time, and his first trip to the hospital shortly after. Click. His first trip to Sea World, when his father had accidentally thrown their car keys into Shamu's tank. First day in high school, when Derek Quesenbery had pulled down his shorts in front of all the girls in gym class. That time his best friend Dan smuggled tequila into the house, and they had gotten roaring drunk before setting fire to the trash can. Click. Click. Click. Sheryl, the only woman he had ever really loved and now, it seemed, ever will. Click.

And before he knew it, he was crying, sobbing so hard that he almost lost his balance, as he watched his life appear in front of him in a neat pile of little squares. At last, after what seemed like thousands of clicks, in which the camera never once ran out of film, the merchant stopped and laid the camera down. Then, as the sky rumbled ominously, he handed Michael a box of matches.

"This is something you must do."

Michael took the box, slid it open, took out a match. His hands were shaking so hard it took several tries to light one, but at last the match ignited with a hiss. He hesitated for one eternal moment, then dropped the match onto the pile of photos.

They ignited immediately, burning with a soft orange flame that somehow gave off very little smoke. The skies rumbled again, and the drizzle became first a shower, then a downpour. The fire flickered, but continued to burn, and as he watched the photographs boil, blacken, then curl, he felt his shuddering gradually subside.

The photographs burned for a very long time, and all the while the rain continued pounding a beat that seemed to go on endlessly. At last, the pile was ashes, and Michael felt only an exhausted lassitude. He sifted through the ashes, and was surprised and gratified to see a single photograph had survived the fire. Sheryl, smiling at him their first evening together.

"The most important one to you, I think," the merchant said, picking up the photo. "I will keep it safe for you, until you feel ready to take it for yourself."

"Can I ask you something?" Michael asked as the man carefully gathered up the other photos and placed the image of Sheryl on top. "Did you know I was coming?"

"No," the man replied as he began gathering together his various knick-knacks. "But you saw the camera and the picures, and you took interest."

"But I couldn't have been the only one."

"You weren't."

Michael looked at him a moment longer, then realized, "Not everyone accepts the offer."

"Most people don't." The man leaned over and kissed Michael on the forehead. "Go with God."

Michael walked away from the sidewalk table, feeling light-headed and unexpectedly heavy at the same time. At length, he looked back, just in time to see the man heft the folding table under his arm and vanish into a sudden crowd. He suddenly realized that it had stopped raining. The clouds parted, and the sun erupted through, brilliant and golden and warm on his skin. It was a perfect moment, a unique moment, one that would never reappear this side of eternity.

He took his camera out of its bag, lifted it to the sun and snapped the shot. Peering into the display on the back, he looked at the results, and smiled.

End

Wow, um...I started this story intending to write a sort of horror story, and it went into a totally different direction. I've heard lots of writers tell stories about how a story dictated its own terms to them, but this is honestly the first time it's happened to me. It's really interesting. I might actually revisit this one, because I like how it turned out, and I want to smooth it out a bit.

What's also really interesting is that I actually hesitated a long time over how to end this one. I really wasn't sure how Michael would choose - it's a lot to sacrifice, and it's a lot to gain as well. I think the choice he ultimately made is the right one for the story, although I, personally, have a lot of reservations about it. Family, friends, and love is an incredible amount to give up...I don't know that I would do it, myself.