In my Life

Dear Chroniclers,

whilst Fetlock was dusting down the Library the other day he came across a rather precious photographic album. The good man, recognising its significance, fetched it out for me.

Here's an entry from it, and I wonder if you may recognise the ill-proportioned Churchill look-alike sitting up to do oratory duty before the assembled masses. It's none other than your very own apprentice horologist, spun back in time to a lost world of candy-box coloured innocence called childhood.

Fast films

The colouration in question results from an early example of Kodak Ektachrome slide film which, from research and conjecture, I believe to have been a staple in my late father's camera-bag. In its time Ektachrome was reputedly the fastest film available to the amateur photographer. Unfortunately, whilst a marked improvement on what went before, the colour-reproduction of the initial version fell somewhat short of modern-day standards.

There remains, however, a certain charm to Ektachrome's warm and mellow tones that not even the most extensive digital colour palette can quite reproduce. It's like wallowing luxuriantly in a Sunday afternoon bath and recalling the summery days of youth.

In the dark

I have fond memories of standing beside the Captain in his Dark Room - a rather grand name for what was in fact a converted outside toilet, mercifully stripped of its former fixtures. I recall the exotic scent of strange chemical substances and a dim green light, which was the only source of illumination in this small, damp hideaway. I suspect the Captain came here to escape the icy clutches of the Black Dowager.

There was a huge enlarger on the bench opposite the door. It was here the Captain would stand, deciding where to crop and burn his photographs. I loved to watch him fetch out a sheet of virgin white paper and place it underneath as he reached up to focus the lens. A moment or two later the exposed sheet would be transported across to the developer tray and dunked into its first wash of chemicals.

Developing

Amidst the swirling, pungent waters, strange shadowy forms would begin to appear on the surface of the paper. Within seconds they would take substance, bold black and strong in contrast. And as my beady child-eyes peered up at the bench the Captain would seize the sheet in a pair of tongs and transport it across to the second tray - a bath of fixative - and thence into a deep Belfast sink with the cold-tap turned open wide.

What magic!

In the Picture

On the rare occasion, the Captain would even allow me to press the shutter-release button, usually after his camera had been secured firmly to a stout tripod and focussed on the subject matter in hand. For the most part, however, my place in his photographic life lay on the other side of the lens.

He took many pictures of the family in his time here, sadly all too many of them disappearing during the regular purges instigated by the Black Dowager to remove as many memories of her late husband as possible.

Rescued Memories

The photograph above was taken on slide-film, the Captain's preferred medium. I rescued it some years ago from the bottom of an old, battered crate tucked away in the darkest depths of a garage. It came as part of a package numbering some three hundred or so similar items, many of which were showing pronounced signs of deterioration.

Thanks, however, to the miracles of modern-day technology I was able to arrange for the best of them to be scanned onto disk, following which I spent many a happy hour in the company of our trusty PC and an early version of Photoshop Elements.

It was truly a fascinating process cleaning up the raw scans - dust was removed, photographs cropped and levels tweaked. The best part of all was looking at a distant, but familiar world through the eyes (or more correctly, the lens) of the Captain. Do you ever long to see things a different way? Then try taking a real close look at a familiar picture and see what it tells you about the person who captured the image.

The shelves fill

Those childhood forays into the Dark Room served me well; in time they set me on my own photographic journey. It started in my twenties when mrs electrofried bought me my first camera - a Fujica STX-1, if you're really interested!

This marvellous instrument taught me priceless lessons. Aside from a simple electronic exposure meter everything else was manual - no zoom lens nor automatic focus, no wind-on nor self-loading mechanisms. Simplicity taught me everything and I have a number of images captured on that camera which bear favourable comparison with photographs I've taken with much more sophisticated, and expensive equipment. One or two have even graced this meandering blog.

Over time the shelves have filled. When I last counted them, there were one hundred and twenty three albums in all charting the history of my own family. And that's not including the albums I make up every Christmas for our children - they each have one to represent another year of their lives.

You see, I so much want them to have precious dreams, not some dusty cast-offs consigned to the darkness.

A Challenge

And with that thought in mind, here's a challenge this week for my honoured guests at the House of Electrofried. Get out a picture you really like, look at it and then type a few lines in the comments box to share it with others.

Until the next time we meet,

my very best regards

electrofried (mr)

A Peace of Time

Dreams of Prague

Stories from the Apocalypse - Splintered

A beginning

We dance endlessly round the fire in celebration, sparks to the bright midnight, holding hands and watching it burn up. In the flickering light, he's out there, watching over us.

Exit

... spinning silently into darkness, across space and time.

The Procession

It's pitch black. I hear a car pull up the drive. Voices, yes voices at last - the voices of Madeline and Eugene. They're coming for me and there's no escape. My fate is silence, but what did I ever do to deserve this?

Scraping at the front door with keys and laughter and the lights go on. I shrink from light. It blinds what little's left of my sight. The sound of their laughter comes again, tumbling into the cottage, taunting me, and here we are, the three of us together, one last time. But what's this they're carrying into the kitchen - a bag of nails? No, a toolbox!

They come close, and as the last of my sight slips away I sense a metallic glint below. Consigned to darkness. Eugene unlocks the box, pulls out a screwdriver, Madeline reaching for the bundle of keys hanging on the hook. I'm opened and they're at the fixings, scrabbling at the screws that twist and turn into me. A spiralling shaft of pain. One by one, until finally I'm undone and hanging loose.

Hands reach up to bear me off into the cold, night air. Warm hands that hold me aloft, carrying me out across the garden, into the field and my body is lifted higher still to the summit of a pyramid pile of sticks and branches and staves and shattered box-card rubbish. I rest there for a little time as a carnival procession of dogs circles around the stack.

I smell the petrol, see a spark ignite. Flames lick up the pyramid, but I feel no pain now. Just waiting for release as the heat burns. Waiting for my body to char until, at last, I'm ....

Time Comes

"We gotta burn this down, Gene. Now!"

Returning

It's the one thing we don't like about the cottage. ... well, I guess it just has all those strange old memories. We never really did get the kitchen sorted properly after it all happened, so now it's time to do something about it. I know what's got to go, that ugly old thing.

"Gene, go fetch the toolbox - we're going for a ride!"

We load up the back of the carrier and make out of town, the traffic beginning to thin as night folds over us. It cuts quick this time of year. Soon be Christmas, another year without him. It hurts - I can't make out for sure quite why I should miss him so. Those long nights alone, dreading his coming awake in the morning beside me. Miserable.

I drift off to sleep as Gene drives us there, nightmares twisting down the road after the carrier. I see Seth through the door, blood pooling out and I'm powerless to move. Paralysed, I watch as he comes toward me, his hands reaching for my throat, dragging me in. I see splinters in his hands, bloody splinters. Desperately, I cry out to break the spell.

Missed

One day, please ... I miss them so.

A certain emptiness

It's lonely here, swinging endlessly to and fro on my own. Sometimes they come back to visit and I half recognise faces and voices, distant memories of the smell of fresh-cut lamb cooking in the kitchen and dogs rushing past me out into the garden.

How quickly the children grow. I nearly caught hold of them a moment ago. How much I want to hug them in my arms again, hear their laughter. But they twist and turn away, out to the garden too in chase of some autumn leaves. One day I'll take them in my arms and draw them close.

Remembrance of Seth

I couldn't believe it when Eugene walked in, it was just like he was a doppelganger. Weird. One door closes and another opens. He said he'd just moved in opposite, and his eyes twinkled like I remembered Seth's. Twinkled, like when I first met Seth and he was this ... this gawky bundle of teenage energy and dreams and soft flaxen hair. Where did he go, damn him?

It was just another weekend at the cottage, but I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't take it. The kids said nothing, helped me mop up the mess, and all the time that bloody door swinging in the wind.

We got most of it up but there was one patch by the mat we couldn't shift. Pretended it was floor polish, pulled the mat across it and hoped it would go away. It never did.

Contre Jour

This feels so good. My arm's not stiff anymore. Sure, there's some residual pain down my side, two thin sets of gouge marks, but who cares. He's gone now - just swinging there. Nailed! And I'm free to step out into this new joy.

I bet he thought he had me there, caught in his wooden embrace. But not now!

I laugh and laugh and laugh as a pack of dogs race in to greet me. The kids aren't far behind, and with them comes Madeline.

Madeline. She's silhouetted against a late afternoon sun, its rays streaming through loose gaps in her clothing, flowing out to reach me. I smile and make my entrance.

"Hi there, my name's Eugene - just moved in opposite."

Touched

... and I feel his touch as he leaves me swinging.

The separation

So here I am, screwed, just as I always wanted. But now the pain comes in waves as I sense him kicking out against the grain. This shouldn't have happened, this should never have happened. I thought we were going to be locked together, permanently.

But no, he's pulling against the grain and every sinew in me hurts. His form is bowed and poised, ready to pull free. Oh no - it's splintering!! I can feel him step out the door ...

Dreaming Again

Is this for real, or just some sick dream in the back of the carrier on the way to the bonfire? Why are the dogs so restless?

I look up and see Gene behind the wheel, he's humming some tune to keep himself awake.We seem to be on the way to the cottage once more, but I'm racing miles ahead of the carrier. All those leaves we scooped up together with the children, building up the pyre and now we're lifting that sick, ugly bloodstained door on top.

So just where did Seth go?

Cut

No escape - sealed. I bang shut.

Mounted

I get out the toolbox. The set of hinges I bought last weekend are there on top, waiting to be fixed. I like their shiny, metal glint - I need something to hold it all together right now, keep it all fastened in place. Permanently.

Madeline and the kids are out for the afternoon with the dogs on some country rambling blackberry-hunt adventure. Alone in the cottage, it's so quiet now they've gone. I lay out my tools on the kitchen floor and start to undress. A pile of discarded clothing and I reach for the sharpened chisel.

My leg is so stiff I can barely feel it touch the grain of my skin. The chisel digs in and shaves off some flesh, a neat rectangular groove. The tape-measure confirms some more has to come out and then it's done. I raise the chisel again, this time to my left arm. The grain is thinner here so it hurts some. A gush of blood onto the floor until the sap rises and seals over the wound, and now there are two neat slots waiting.

I fix myself. Seconds later the hinges are in and I'm up in place. Swinging.

Strange Behaviours

Why should a man pick up a brush and start to varnish his left arm? Seth's skin is an ebony bridge drying in the sun, stiffening.

Entrance

It' s a pin-prick, some loose irritation. I caught it on the back-door on the way out to the garden, chasing after the kids.

Holding my hand to the light I see a splinter digging in, piercing the flesh between the second and third fingers of my left hand. It seems to be burrowing in deep - the entry wound has sealed and a black tunnel leads towards the vein. Seeping.

I sense a hardening as it takes possession of me. Grain spreading out across my arm. I feel ...


...wooden.