I found this abandoned home earlier this year, and I can’t stop thinking about it, or writing stories about it.
I find that writing, even if it’s bad, brings me closer to my photos, and allows me to enter the scenes I point my camera at.
When I go back to these places (and I almost always go back), the stories I make up become part of the fabric of how I see the world.
I’ve written a short story below, and I hope you dig it. Also, I’d invite you to do the same - write about a photo of yours you love, and see the world inside the image come alive.
Chapter One: SOMETHING HAPPENED HERE
I walked this small town for a few minutes after I filled up with gas, and took the photo you see above.
As I often do, I stood in the street for a few minutes, imagining the people who used to live here, and the events that took them away.
Soon, an older man with a cane shuffled slowly towards me. He looked like he could be between 40 and 80 years old, all things being equal. People in these places age different.
Men like him are a common sight in nearly-abandoned towns: older people without much to do, keeping watch over the neighborhood. He stood next to me, uncomfortably close, looking at the house.
"Hey, I’m Jerred,” I offered. “I’m a photographer from Omaha.”
He didn't smile or react, and just kept staring at the house. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just looked at the house too.
"Do you know what happened here?" he asked after a few moments, his voice higher-pitched than I expected.
The man leaned heavily on his cane with shaking hands, and and his breathing was ragged. My grandfather had a cane uncannily like his: hand-carved with a deeply polished, mahogany snake head.
"No," I told him. "I just thought it was an interesting house."
The man’s face was serious, his lines sharp. His eyes, though, seemed younger, caught up in a distinct memory from the past.
"Do you mean the floods, is that what happened?" I was just trying to make small talk, and I remembered that this town had been rocked by devastating floods over the years. Many people had left.
He shook his head quickly: an adamant NO.
"It's probably better you don't know," he coughed, seemed frail beyond words for a second, leaning over with his eyes closed. He paused and collected himself. ”You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
He spat then, almost angrily before turning and walked slowly away. I took a few more photos before deciding to return to my car.
I realized then that others were watching. I could see no one, but the feeling of eyes glaring is unmistakable.
My car.
Where was it again?
I wandered through the streets. Entire neighborhoods were in various states of abandonment.
I could hear screaming in the distance as I walked by this children’s park. It wasn’t a dangerous scream, or a warning. It was a scream someone makes when they lose something precious, something vital.
Was it me? Was I the one screaming?
I stumbled down side streets with the sun reflecting on twisted metal and warming the color of rust.
I searched for a way out, and found only remnants. All the people were gone, even if I could still feel them in the periphery.
The quietness was surreal, and it was more than a lack of sound. It felt more like a void, in that even the sound of my footsteps seemed to be swallowed by the old concrete and shattered glass.
The sun was bright and then it wasn’t, and cool winds prevailed while the sun started to fade. Things were falling apart. The rules governing normal things no longer mattered.
A voice. Then voices, all around me, reaching out from the past.
Was I trapped here, wandering the streets with whispering ghosts?
Maybe wandering these streets is where I’m meant to be. An observer of things lost, forever.
So… what did you think?
I do a lot of writing about my photographs, and I almost never share any of it. Most of the time, it’s meant only for myself, and it’s often really, really bad. Will there be a chapter two someday? Who knows? Who cares!
The creative act, in all its forms, is a lifeline for me, and maybe sharing a bit of my wild and crazy process here and there will help others along the way.
I have no idea what I’m doing, people. I’m just trying to hold on to as much of life as I can, and to create meaningful work.
So, give it a shot. Find a photo you like, or don’t like, and write a story about it.
If you do end up writing something, let me know and share. I’d love to learn more about your world - real or imagined.
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Comments? Leave them below or email me: jerredz@gmail.com
This is amazing. I have heard the screaming and the whispers in towns like this myself. I have some “out there” beliefs about that but I digress. Your photos are haunting, tragic, and beautiful. Your story is engaging and I found myself really wanting to know what happened in the house and what factors led to the decay of this town. I would like to see more of your writing along with your beautiful photographs.
I like it! The photos really participated in the story as equally as the words. I would like to see more!