Okay, one more, and then I really am walking away from the computer for the night.
Photo #4
The village of Wollston Ripple is renowned for being the home of the only banshee that does not foretell death and despair. The banshee takes the usual form of a young woman washing clothing in a local stream; however, instead of blood-stained garments, she appears to be washing doll clothing. She does not cry or scream, but, if approached, will recite limericks and give clues as to where lost treasures from one's childhood can be found before vanishing in a small shower of forget-me-nots.
Teppy, if you get stuck for a topic, yanking another ten photos out of that archive seems like gold.
Never fear -- I already have about 30 more marked in a reminder private LJ post.
SUsan, just got in, but I'll check it out in the morning. Send it on.
I'm not sure about the number, but it's the same one Jesse used.
[link]
As She Clicks- 1944
“You can’t take our picture right now, Doris,” I say.”Everyone will think all we do at the magazine is drink.”
”Not true,” Betty says. “They will think we chase men, too.” Betty is really funny, but it sneaks up on you. She is kind of the Rosalind Russell of our crowd. If she did chase a man, he would chase back.
“No, “ Doris argues. “They’ll understand we’re celebrating. “ Our magazine is one year old today. “They do it at the New Yorker.”
“But they’re from New York,” I say, knowing I’ll get outvoted, “They do everything.”
Photo 1
Venice, he had said. We must feed the pigeons. She had smiled and humored him; it was their honeymoon, after all, a time for whims, caprices, follies. She'd even sprinkled birdseed into his hat without a murmur about the inevitable cleaning bills.
So, Venice. A few years later, Constantinople; then Casablanca, each gilded with his laughter, made gemütlich by his company. Next year, perhaps, Jerusalem?
Apparently not. She leans on the single permissable suitcase; again it sticks. She removes the photograph album and drops it into the trash. Now she must travel light; the memories need no room at all.
I adore these drabbles, all of them. There are so many good ones that I don't know where to start in my praise of them.
Photo #8
Who is behind the camera, looking at these saucy girls, aching to become women? Who is gazing at Emily, checkered skirts "accidently" hiked up to show a glimpse of undergarment? Mary's schoolgirl braids, milky skin and forthright eyes, and tomboy Ann, with her poker-straight posture and clenched jaw?
And why does the camera linger on uncertain Isabelle, the timid one, the only one too shy to put the cigarette (forbidden to good girls, which they were) between her lips?
Mark her. Mark Isabelle.
It's the last day of her life.
Oooh, Erin. That made me shiver.
