2016 -- 8.2 (Spring) Fiction


by: Megan Finsel

She smiled back at me from the photo I had just taken. I was standing alone on the street corner outside what was now my apartment. Yet here she was, in the black and white image I held.

She looked very young, maybe nine or ten. She was standing with her back to the lamppost, her hair in pigtails and a bandage across her right knee. Her face was round, and her eyes were innocent.

I’d found this Polaroid camera in the attic this morning. I held it up again, focusing on the lamppost across the street.


I shook the photo carefully, watching as two figures slowly appeared. Same girl, she looked taller, and she was holding hands with a young man.


She was older now, more mature, and her husband stood with her in the doorway. The sunlight glinted off my own engagement ring.  I stared at it for a moment, my heart pounding.


Even older now, she looked exhausted. Three kids played around her in the yard. I could swear she could see me, judging by the glare on her face, and the warning in her eyes.


Her face was sadder, her hair was stringy. She sat in a wheelchair, hugging her body with willowy arms. Age had stolen most of her vigor, and her smile. She looked defeated. I could only stare into her eyes, as she stared back into mine.

I knew her, and she knew me. We were the same person; the same life transcending time to be captured on film.

I raised the camera one more time, but stopped. I knew what would come next. I was prepared, but I couldn’t bring myself to press the button. I gazed up at the lamppost, standing lonely on the street corner. The wind slowly pulled the photos from between my fingers and I let them go, watching them whirl away down the sidewalk.



Bio: Writing is my passion. It’s how I connect with the world, and how I share my thoughts, ideas, and feelings. If you want to truly know me more, you need to read my stories because I put a piece of my heart into each one.