The intensity

Of his rage

Betrayed

In his eyes

That gaze

Responsible

For his cage

The jury

Conflicted

Until

The prosecutor

Revealed

The photograph

Blown up

Larger than life

Her fear

His anger

Rang more true

Than any

Witness

Testimony

A random teen

In a twist of fate

Caught them

Just before

Her final moment

In a remarkably timed

Selfie

Scrolling through

Their recent photos

They remembered the faces

From the news

And sent the photo

To the police

The jury

Deliberated

For less than an hour

Unanimous verdict:

Guilty

Sentence:

Death penalty

There were three deaths

Captured

In that photograph

The woman's -

Impending

The man's -

Punitive

The teen's -

Innocence

I invented it. My baby, raised in black and white, and all its shades. True the Chinese, sacré fou, philosophized on their derrières while setting on their firecrackers and pouring over Zhuyeqing leaves in their precious porcelainware... pondering the inversion of scenery through a pinhole in the dark anti-universe of an otherwise hermetically sealed small black box.

But it was I who made Da Guerre!!

All that followed was the negatif. Know that I, Joseph Nicéphore Niépce, was first in bringing death to Life in a single Photograph. The Positif. The proof of a moment of vanity.

Life that in that very capture is seized and ceased to exist except as this new entity: The Photograph.

My "successor" Louis Daguerre, he pandered, yes pandered to Vanity. He contrived with my son Isidore to make multiples. Multiples!! Pfha! Degenerate. Death is death. Singular.

There is only our long and tedious war against it, daily.

In my old age I have come to understand why the Chinese, left it, then wisely at theory. There is another death in Photography, if we are not careful.. to look beyond what we are given... Phos the root of the word, you see means light, but more specifically Torchbearer! The death in the light, the hidden darkness is, our inevitable subtraction of Imagination.

Now we think we know.

A blessing and a curse. Our eternal damnation.

*This story is fiction... based on some history. J. N. Niépce captured the first photograph in 1826, by heliographic process, but renown is given in History to Louis Daguerre for the early development of Photography with the invention of the daguerreotype, which although producing a single image, could be reproduced using another camera; subsequently replaced by the invention of the negative by William Henry Fox Talbot.

11.09.2023

Death in a Photograph @Huckleberry_Hoo

When my great-aunt Deannie died, I inherited a gold-plated brush, comb and hand mirror that I had always admired growing up…and all of her photo albums.

Aunt Deannie was born in 1904. She left home in Dublin, Georgia at 16 to move to Chicago where she lived and loved for the next 57 years. In the same bag of photobooks was also the death certificate of her husband I only ever knew as Mr. Patton for he had died some six years before I was born. I also discovered they owned a home there, Mr. Patton, the waiter, and Aunt Deannie, the elevator operator. I suspect they met, fell in love and worked in the same hotel.

She moved to New York in 1977 when my great-grandmother (Lily) insisted she come help care for my great-great grandmother (Granny). I always felt badly because they (Aunt Deannie and Lily) didn’t get along, all of Aunt Deannie’s friends, her life, her most cherished memories were in Chicago, and, most tragically to young me, Granny died five years later, and Aunt Deannie was too old at that point to move again.

About five years ago, I was cleaning out my attic and came upon the bag of her albums. Some of them I knew very well: baby pictures of myself and my son, photo Christmas cards I had sent, school portraits of my cousins and me, family pictures from Thanksgivings and Christmases when she came to New York to visit. My dad’s weddings pictures from both his weddings. My cousins and I posing for posterity on a random summer day. First holy communion pictures. A few photos were of younger never-seen-by-me versions of my grandmother (Georgia) and Lily. There’s a black and white of Lily at a club, liquor bottles and glasses on the table, with a man, two women I don’t know and my Aunt Dutsie (raised as a sister but really Lily’s cousin) and her husband, Uncle Sonny. Another photo is of my already sad-eyed Daddy and his smiling sister at about ages 5 and 3, respectively. Another black and white photo is of my uncle Sonny, young and dapper, next to a color picture of him comfortably round and retired.

Two albums are all black and white photos of people and places I never knew, a glimpse of the life Aunt Deannie led: Aunt Deannie at the beach posing in a bathing suit and cap; standing with a group next to a beautiful Ford; hiking with a girlfriend; partying at various clubs with girlfriends, couple friends and one on a date with a very handsome young man – perhaps Mr. Patton since he appears in various photos, all drinking and smoking and smiling; friends; co-workers; godchildren; a dog that must have been hers given his multiple appearances in all the albums and a poem she included, To my dog.

As I was writing this, I went up to the attic and spent an hour looking at the pictures again. And I found one I had never seen. It is of my mother young and smiling. She is too distant from the camera for me to see her eyes. I can only hope that they are smiling, too, for on the back she had written: To my Honey with All my Love, ****. I suspect the picture was originally given to my dad. They were only married for six years, and she had the marriage annulled some years later.

Death in a photograph.

Almost every photo in the albums is a picture of death. There is one that is literally a picture of my Granny in her coffin. But that’s not what I mean. Of the people I know in all the pictures, only my mother, one cousin and the children of another are still alive.

If you think about it, every photograph is a picture of death. The moment forever encapsulated in a still image is over, never to be lived again.

I wonder often about presence. We feel much more than we see.

The way you hover over my shoulder. Guardian angel legions, looming; undisguised demons, lurking. A physical sensation tempered by something invisible. No matter what I am doing. Suddenly, you are near. Checking in on me. And I'd like to know, what that looks like viewed from the side.

So many moments pass us by...

That's what it's like.

Death.

In a photograph-- not taken.

Over the years, I have read many crime stories. To this day, however, only one still lingers vividly in my memory, haunting me since I was the impressionable age of fifteen; the Richard Valenti case.

It was late May in the year of 1973. and I was just about to turn fifteen years of age while living in the suburbs of Charleston, South Carolina. Two teenage girls, 13 and 14 years old, had gone missing while visiting a popular barrier island off the peninsula, Folly Beach, located about twenty minutes from the city. About nine months following the disappearance of the first two girls, a third girl, Mary Earline Bunch, who was the daughter of the Sheriff of Folly Beach, also went missing; she was only 16 years of age and disappeared while sitting in front of the Sheriff's Office, no less. I recall in detail that my mother, aunt, and grandmother speculated on the girls' disappearance, horrified by the possibilities of what might have happened to them. I particularly remember that my aunt was friends with a family member of the Bunches. For some reason, my aunt's extended acquaintance with one of the families seemed to make the girls' disappearance more relatable and very real, and the thought instilled an even greater sense of fear in me.

As a young girl who was around the same ages as that of the missing girls, fear was a very palpable thing. I was a worrier to begin with, so I suffered consistent bouts of anxiety that the same thing would happen to me even though I did not frequent Folly Beach nor did I live anywhere close to the vicinity. Their disappearance was repeatedly covered by all news outlets, and everyone in the vicinity grew more and more anxious as the weeks and months went by. It seemed to be the only thing the community could speak of for months on end, and as an impressionable youth, my mind also ran rampant with thoughts of what might have happened.

It was not until April 12th of 1974, nearly a full year following the initial disappearance of the first two girls, that a Folly Beach policeman was responding to a nearby complaint and discovered three girls bound and gagged beneath a house just one street over from the beachfront. One of the girl’s gags had slipped loose, and she had been able to scream for help, attracting the attention of the policeman. The girls were from the neighboring town of Summerville and reported they had skipped school to visit the beach for the day when a man with a beard and gun had abducted them, threatening they'd be killed if they did not comply. Once moved to a vacant house, they had been bound and gagged and then left by their abductor in the shower room located beneath an empty house. The three girls were able to provide detailed information about the appearance of the man who had kidnapped them and a composite was released in the media shortly thereafter to alert everyone of the suspect.

With this unexpected, new development, a resident of Folly Beach began to wonder more about a recent, but odd incident involving his dog at a spot on the beach very near the house where the three girls had been discovered. On April 16th, the man called police to report the incident, telling them that his dog had been repeatedly drawn to a spot on the beach where he wanted to dig nonstop despite the man's attempts to distract his dog. The police responded and investigated the area in question where they began a search that included deep digging. In doing so, a young female’s clothing was discovered and a larger investigation ensued. It was over the course of several days and bulldozing, that the decayed remains of three missing teenage females were discovered, buried in two different areas; one a few hundred feet from the house and the other in the backyard of the house where the three girls had been rescued. A full blown pursuit for the suspect was instigated, including roadblocks, navy jets surveying the area with infrared sensors, and house-to-house investigations gathering as much detailed information as possible.

Only a short while following the composite drawing's release in the news, a young woman in North Charleston, who had only recently survived a brutal beating by a sailor she had picked up from a local Naval Base Bar, began to put pieces of her story together. The woman was able to identify the man who had beat her as the man in both the composite drawing and the military pictures released on the news. From this development, was then confirmed the man's name was Richard Valenti. Valenti had rented a home on Folly Beach and according to those who knew him, he was a 31-year old male who had recently shaved his head and grown a mustache, most likely in an attempt to disguise himself. Neighbors reported Valenti had lingered onsite during the investigations, attempting to make comforting comments following the discovery of the deceased girls' bodies. Police also recognized Valenti as a spectator who had offered them food and drink during the search and recovery of the bodies. This is often a prevalent behavioral trait for criminals in many instances. The perpetrator will assist with police efforts for a crime of which he is ultimately responsible and is often in the direct midst of concentrated investigative efforts. This may largely be due to the fact that some criminals think they are much smarter than authorities or because some actually wish to be caught, seeing no end in sight to their atrocious behavior. Some also likely obtain a perverted thrill from being an onlooker in cases involving their own devious crimes.

Valenti was arrested shortly after the discovery of the missing girls and charged with three counts of murder, four counts of assault and battery with intent to kill, and one count of assault and battery with intent to ravish. He was held without bail until his trial ensued a few months later.

During the trial, The Charleston County Medical Examiner testified that the two teen-age girls (Clark and Latimer) found buried on Folly Beach died as a result of hanging. Valenti described to police how he had approached the girls on the beach with a gun (later identified as only a toy gun) and told them if they did not comply with his orders, he would shoot them. He then took them to a vacant house where, in an outside shower stall, he had them partially disrobe and tied their hands and feet, making them pose in various positions. After having the girls stand on a chair, he had placed nooses around their necks that were tied to the water pipes above before he kicked the chairs from beneath them and watched as they died, finding gratification in doing so.

A great deal of background information, including the fact Valenti had grown up in a dysfunctional home with a domineering, all-controlling mother, was presented by the defense during the trial. His own wife described him as a sexual deviant who desired to reverse the domination he had experienced from his mother most of his life, which was the only way he could achieve sexual gratification and control and admitted that he had controlled her in such a perverted manner. However, she further reported that when the couple had moved to Charleston, they had become Christians, so she mistakenly had thought that Valenti’s perversion or crisis had passed, and he was a changed man.

The trial lasted for four days and the jury took less than an hour to find Valenti guilty on two counts of murder. On June 2, 1974, Valenti was given two life sentences to be served consecutively less than two months after the discovery of the deceased girls. Shortly following the trial, an attempt to move forward was made by planting dogwood trees as a memorial at the schools the victims had attended. The dogwood trees bloom each spring on the school grounds. As a side note, Valenti was never officially tried for the murder of the last girl to go missing (Bunch).

Years after the three murders, once I had graduated from college, I secured a job working in the Charleston County Solicitor’s Office. As a result, I became privy to more undisclosed information on the Valenti case. I can only tell you that the things Valenti did to those girls were completely, undeniably unforgiveable and inhuman. I am choosing to allow those things to remain hidden in long buried court documents, as they should, but I can tell you that no one should ever have to endure such atrocious acts, most especially not children or young adults.

During my time in the Solicitor’s Office, I also learned that because of the way the law was written when Valenti was convicted of murder in 1974, he became eligible for probation after serving only ten years of his sentence. Fortunately, Valenti did not achieve parole after serving the ten years, but due to the same law, he then became eligible for parole every two years thereafter. This former law was was a horrible crack or failing on the part of South Carolina's legal judicial system, especially for the victims' families. I will note that the law was later corrected in the years that followed Valenti's conviction and those individuals convicted of murder in SC are no longer eligible for parole every two years after serving such a small portion of their sentences.

Due to the former law, the families of Valenti's victims had to make the long one hundred-mile trek to Columbia, SC where Valenti was housed in prison every two years, thereby reliving the deaths of their children as they begged the parole board not to release this monster of a man. By the time Valenti died in a South Carolina prison in December of 2020 at the age of 77, he had been up for parole twenty-one times. Numerous petitions and letters from people who had been affected by and opposed Valenti’s atrocious crimes and early release, including me, accompanied the families each time they made a trip to the parole board. Fortunately, the families were always successful and Valenti was repeatedly denied, never being released prior to this death.

While it is true there are other horrific crimes with detailed information to which I was privy while working in the Solicitor’s Office during the 80's, and many quite graphic and unforgettable, this is the case that hit closest to home, leaving its mark. I will, much to my dismay, never forget it or the violent man who took the lives of such young souls.

In some odd way, it nearly feels like sacrilege to write this piece and give Valenti the least bit of memory on paper or otherwise. Therefore, I am choosing to concentrate on and honor the deceased by posting the picture of dogwoods as a heading to this piece, just as the school chose to plant the beautiful, blooming trees in memory of the girls.

Dogwoods are a symbol of hope, life, and peace. May Alexis Ann Latimer (13 years old), Sheri Jan Clark (14 years old), and Mary Earline Bunch (16 years old) rest in peace. I am sure Richard Valenti does not.

RESOURCES:

https://murderpedia.org/male.V/v/valenti-richard.htm

https://law.justia.com/cases/south-carolina/supreme-court/1975/20100-1.html

"It's Mina," she says with a slow, sly smile. She holds her drink in both hands, sipping through the cocktail straw. Her eyes lock on his.

"Steve," he extends his hand. She shakes it gingerly, her smile never wavering. She returns to the two-handed grip on her beverage.

"Can I get you another...?" He gestures questioningly.

"Bloody Mary. Yes, please."

"Bold choice for a hotel bar," he jokes, stepping away to get them both another round. A few minutes later, he returns to the hightop in the corner where he spotted her drinking alone. "Here you are, Mina," he practically sparkles with charm.

"What do you mean?" She asks, discarding the skewered olives. They lie in a heap atop jagged pieces of broken and melted ice in the finished glass.

"I thought half the fun of one of those was that it was also a snack. Like a dirty martini, but brunchier." He chuckles, sipping his Jack and Coke.

"I'm more of a carnivore, I suppose. But I am still curious what you mean."

"Oh, no, it's nothing, really. I mean, I go to a place like this, I keep the drinks simple, you know? This isn't exactly a spot for craft cocktails, and the food in this place is so blah."

"Oh, I don't know. I think the food here is fine. The crowd is definitely more like a watering hole in the wild, I get that. But my drink, it's just a premix and vodka, yes?"

"I mean, sure, but there's the stuff in it, too. Obviously, drink what you want, it's not like the opinion of strangers is of much interest, right?"

"True. Speaking of interest, I'm not interested in...most things...in this place." She delivers this line like a seductress in an old Bogart film, breaking eye contact just long enough to glance around the room, then back. Her eyes move south to north, taking him in, returning to and lingering on the south before returning to his gaze. She sips, he swallows. "I'm interested in you, though."

He chokes.

She releases a throaty, rich, incubus laugh that fills the room and makes Steve's heart race and voice thicken when he can finally speak.

"Been drinking long, Steve?" She teases.

"Apparently I'm new to it. You?" He takes a napkin from the table, wipes the Coke from his chin, scoffing at himself.

"Longer than you'd expect, I think." She's grinning again.

"Well. It's impolite to ask a lady her age."

"Is that what you think I am?"

"Wait. Is this a trick? A trans-type thing?"

"Not at all. It's an honest question."

"I hope not."

"You hope it's not an honest question, or is that your answer?"

It's his turn to grin slyly at her. "I hope you're not a lady."

"So you want me to have a dick?"

He chokes on his drink again, sputtering. "Oh, god, no, that's not what I meant, I---"

She laughs again, interrupting him. "I know, Steve. Relax. I'm only teasing. Trust me, there's no dick here."

"Well, if there were, I wouldn't judge."

"But you wouldn't want to fuck me."

"Jesus, Mina, wow, you're just gonna put it out there like that?" He blushes.

"Would you?"

"What? Say it like that?"

"No. Would you fuck me? If I had a dick, I mean."

"Holy shit, what, you're getting into this on the first date?"

"Is this a date? I'm just a girl in a bar. You're just a boy trying to make me end up with a dick one way or another, or have I misread this?" That grin never fades.

"Maybe I need another drink."

"Oh, poor lion in the savanna finds out he's really the gazelle. Careful. I hear whiskey can impact performance. I think we have plans."

His eyes bulge, but he decides to roll with it. "Okay, well, I do have a room here."

"I don't. Take me home. I'd be more relaxed at my house."

"I've been drinking."

"Oh, I see. I'm not worth the risk. Well, thanks for the drink, Steve." She stands, moving to head towards a booth occupied by a pair of what look to be men in town on business, just like Steve. He reaches out, catches her by the wrist.

"Wait."

She stops, looks down at his grip and back up to him. Her grin becomes a toothy thing, and she leans in to whisper in his ear. "You're a big, strong boy aren't you?" Her tongue flicks his lobe, and he shivers. "Maybe there is some lion in there."

"I'll drive you home. Just let me have a word with my friend at the bar, so he knows I'm leaving." He lets go of her arm, and it's her turn to catch his hand. Her fingers intertwine with his.

"Don't be long," she almost moans, and releases him.

Steve smiles dumbly and approaches the bar. His sales partner has been watching the whole time from across the room, and he greets Steve with a handshake. "Congratulations, man."

Steve can't help but feel like he's won the lottery. Mina is an absolute knockout, if a bit strange. "We're going to her house."

"Out-damn-standing my man."

"Do me a favor. Take a pic of us when I get back over there. I need this for posterity. She's too goddamn hot to not remember with a photo and if I do it it's just weird and creepy."

"If I do it, it's completely normal behavior from a stranger sitting at the bar? You serious?"

"Get after it, man. And text it to me. I can't believe she wants me to carry her home and fuck. She basically said so, can you believe it?"

"You're a lucky man, Stevey."

With that, Steve goes back to the high top in the corner. He stands so that his buddy can capture Mina and he together. Behind her back, Steve gives a lascivious grin and a thumbs-up to Abe at the bar. So lost in lust is Steve that he doesn't notice the perplexed looks Abraham gives his phone.

Later, when the police are investigating, Abe gladly shows the photographs and texts to the detectives; Steve never checks those text messages, because he has his hands full.

Soon after arriving at her house, Mina and her sister Lucy have their hands full of Steve, too.

If those texts had been checked, Steve would have seen a series of question marks both preceding and following photos from the bar.

Three pictures, taken seconds apart while Abe stares at his phone in disbelief, each show Steve with his arm around empty air, giving a goofy grin and thumbs up.

Mina was at the table, but not in the photographs.

No one ever noticed that she cast no reflection in the mirror behind the hotel bar, either.

People aren't supposed to disappear without a trace, but the investigation never moves from missing person to homicide.

Death carried a camera. They got the idea from a culture who believed a photograph captured the subject's soul. And Death thought, sure, why not? Mostly, it worked out great. In certain situations, they could appear corporeally, but still be invisible. They stood, at the Grand Canyon, and looked out over incomprehensible beauty, shared in the awe with all the mortals. Just another tourist.

It was a hot day, well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and a number of tourists weren't as careful as they should have been. It was a bit of a hike for a man with a weak heart. Death lifted their long-lens camera, and captured an image of the man. In the view screen, the creased face stared in awe at the scene before him. His eyes were wide open, tears formed as he tried to take in the overwhelming majesty of nature. In the image, the man's face was red, his heart racing with exertion and excitement. Beads of sweat glistened and dripped just below his hairline. He was so alive.

Death looked up from the camera as the man sat on the ground and clutched at his chest. To the other tourists, he appeared overcome with emotion, not an uncommon sight. Then he slumped to the ground, bonelessly, and died. Tourists whipped out their cellphones, a family sent their kids to find a park ranger. A young man whose sun-kissed skin and muscular build suggested he was a lifeguard, tossed aside his backpack and started CPR. Blue-black hair waved silkily forward with each chest compression. His lips formed a perfect bow in his Asian face.

The lifeguard intrigued Death, as they were often intrigued by mortals who fought to delay the inevitable. It’s his time, Death thought. Don't make the old man suffer, let him leave on a high note. But the lifeguard continued on, oblivious.

Death raised his camera again, careful not to release the shutter. The young lifeguard had deep brown eyes, at first resolved, steely, but as the seconds passed, as he gave more breaths to the inevitable, his eyes showed tiredness, resignation, sorrow. Minutes went by, a park ranger arrived to take over, and the lifeguard stepped back, his face showing that he knew the old man was gone. He looked around to see if there was family to comfort. There was no one, the old man was alone. He put his backpack back on, waited until the ambulance arrived. He felt some responsibility for a stranger he'd never met while living, but whose breath he'd shared, whose heart he'd felt under his hands. His eyes were turbulent with emotion.

The lifeguard looked up and straight into Death's camera. Death doesn't have a heart, but something caught in their chest, that look of raw humanity connected to something deep within them. Click. They accidentally pressed the shutter release, and captured that look for eternity. Shit shit shit. It was not this young man's time. They felt the impending death strike zap down towards the lifeguard. With a flick of their wrist they directed it to a small bird flying overhead. The bird, unsuspecting, dropped with a thunk onto the path fifty feet behind the lifeguard. Some tourists recoiled from the dead bird and looked up quizzically.

Shit. The lifeguard was marked for death, and redirecting the death strikes would only delay the inevitable. There was no way Death could keep this man alive for his natural time. Or was there? Death was nothing if not stubborn and patient. Decisively, they split off this embodiment of themselves, Death now partially contained within this body, but still present elsewhere, everywhere, anywhere there is life.

Little Death looked down at his hands holding the camera. Strong, competent hands. The camera felt heavy in them, no longer an instrument of death, just a camera.

"Are you ok? If you don't mind me saying, you look a little pale."

Death was startled by the question, and saw the lifeguard in front of him, looking concerned.

"Yes, I'm new here." Death grimaced, as someone who had experienced all of humanity, he knew that was in the top ten most awkward phrases ever uttered in all of history.

The lifeguard just laughed. His laugh was melodic, infectious. His voice a surprising bass coming from a lean, wiry body. Something stirred in Death, in his belly and lower. Maybe I'm hungry? Distracted by these new sensations, he missed the lifeguard’s next question. "I'm sorry, what?"

"My name is Rich, what's your name?"

"My name is Death," Death said without thinking.

"Dev?" Rich looked slightly confused. That's not what he’d actually heard.

Death just stared at Rich.

"I'm sorry I laughed at you, it's just my way of releasing tension. That poor man."

"It was good of you to try to save him." Death looked intently at Rich, he knew he'd been staring too long to appear like a normal human, but was unable to stop himself.

"Anyone would have done the same," Rich blushed and looked away.

No, not just anyone. Death had witnessed countless deaths, and he knew this level of care for a stranger was not unheard of, but not common. True kindness was rare, precious. But he didn't want to be the one to share this reality with Rich.

"And anyway, it's not like what I did mattered. He's dead." Rich's face crumpled, he looked down and hot tears fell to the hot dusty ground, absorbed instantly.

Death reached out instinctively, gently lifted Rich's chin, wiped away his tears. "It mattered," he said softly.

Rich wept, quietly, but with heaving shoulders. Death reached out and enveloped Rich in a hug, patting his back as he'd seen countless others do for comfort. Rich's sobs subsided, he sniffled. Death sensed another death strike coming in, and diverted it to a small beetle crawling at their feet.

Rich awkwardly stepped back, "I'm sorry, I don't usually do that to people I just met."

"It's ok. It's very human."

"Thank you. Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."

"Are you gay?"

Death threw back his head and laughed. He surprised himself with the joy in his own laugh, light, airy, sweet. No one had ever in all of existence asked Death if he was gay.

'I don't know." Death answered honestly.

"Ok. Do you want to get dinner?" Rich asked.

"I'd like that, Rich."

"Great! Dev?" Rich still wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

"Dev." Dev said.

For Rich and Dev, the years passed quickly. Dev discovered Rich was a vegetarian, and out of respect for his beliefs, did his best to direct all incoming death strikes to plants and the occasional insect. Rich finished medical school and became a nurse, while Dev discovered others appreciated his photography talents. Particularly portraits. Clients said he really captured their souls in his photos, and he would just smile and respond, "Not anymore."

Dev joined Rich's family for Thanksgiving and they were happy to have him, happy to see how he made Rich happy.

"Where is your family, Dev?" Rich asked.

"Either in heaven or hell." Dev said.

And Rich left it at that.

They loved to travel. Shared with each other the beauty of parks, enjoyed bustling cities. Filled their senses with new experiences and each other. For the fifth anniversary of their meeting, Dev planned a special trip back to the Grand Canyon.

Rich and Dev stood near the spot where they'd met, the view was just as breathtaking as the first time.

"I still think about that poor old man sometimes," Rich said.

"If he hadn't died, if you hadn't tried to save him, we never would have met," Dev said.

"I know, I feel guilty that I feel grateful for his death. I hope his soul is at peace."

"It is," Dev said with certainty. He waved a hand, not in dismissal of Rich's statement, but to divert another death strike to a small weed trying to grow in the cracked dirt. It withered instantly.

Rich knew better than to ask Dev how he knew things like that. He smiled slightly, the quirky things that came out of Dev's mouth were a big reason he'd fallen in love. He reached for Dev's hand, but it wasn't by his side where it usually was. Rich turned around to look for him.

Dev knelt behind him on the dusty ground, holding out a hand with a black velvet box, and in the box was a white gold ring with small diamonds embedded flat into the band like stars. Classy, elegant, practical, sparkly. Rich was speechless.

Dev cleared his throat. He knew this was how many humans proposed to their mates, and not for the first time wondered at how strange humans were and how strange he was for feeling the urge to mimic them when it came to Rich.

"You are the best human I've ever known in the history of humans. When I met you here five years ago, that's when my life began. You make me a better person, and I can't imagine life without you. You make me happy, and I want to make you happy for as long as I can. Will you marry me?" Dev swallowed, he thought he knew Rich, but could anyone ever be sure?

Rich usually spoke before he thought, but now he took his time finding the right words.

"You are incredible, I love how you see into the heart of everyone you meet. I love how you joke with and care for my family. I love the way you look out for me. I love how unique your perspective is. If I lived a thousand years, I'd never meet another person like you, but I'd only want to live a thousand years if you were there with me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I'm only sad I didn't get to ask you first." Rich knelt down in front of Dev, pulled a ring box out of his pocket and opened it. Black gold, with a single black diamond inset into the band. Mystery, simplistic beauty, stark artistry.

Rich and Dev looked at each other, and together said, "Yes."

Not much changed when Rich and Dev got married. Rich saved countless lives, and Dev captured them on film. Dev never got over the thrill of saying Rich was his husband, never got over the thrill of wearing his ring. They lived a full, meaningful life, filled with friends, purpose, family, and each other.

If Rich thought it odd that Dev kept buying houseplants despite being unable to keep them alive more than a week, he didn't say anything, just wrote it off as another quirk.

Years flew past, faster than a raven. Their hair turned grey, then white. Countless plants died in Rich's stead, and Dev never could bring himself to tell Rich the truth. But in all other ways, their lives were open, loving, happy.

Rich didn't get a thousand years, but he got one hundred. Just a few days after they celebrated his birthday, he collapsed, and Dev accompanied him to the hospital.

There wasn't anything left to say between them. Dev held Rich’s hand while Rich slept, and it was enough.

Dev could feel Rich's natural death was almost here, but he wasn't ready. He thought by the time it came he'd be at peace with the natural order of things. They'd made enough memories for multiple lifetimes. But he was having trouble letting go.

He felt another death strike coming in, just a few minutes before Rich's time would be up anyway. Should he just let it strike early? As he'd done countless times before, he reached out to see where he could divert the death strike. His heart stopped when he realized there were only other people in the hospital wing, not a single insect or living plant was nearby to take the strike. And he was too old, to tired himself to reach further. There was no way he would kill another person for Rich. He knew Rich would never forgive him for something like that. Dev realized he would never forgive himself, and marveled for a second at the person he had become, at how he was a better soul. Because of Rich.

In the end, there was no choice. Rich made the world a better place every second he was in it, and Dev didn't want to experience the world without him. With his free hand, he pulled the death strike into his own heart. Rich's name on his lips, he fell onto the hospital bed half on top of Rich, and died.

Rich stirred and felt Dev's deadweight on him, felt his love around him. He knew he was close to death, but even so, tears came for his sweet Dev, and more tears that Dev wasn't able to wipe them away as he always did.

Dev felt someone wipe away his tears. He opened his eyes and looked upon the empty face of Death.

"Oh hi, it's you," Rich said.

Death nodded. In Death's featureless movements, something felt familiar, and a truth he'd hidden from himself floated free.

"You're a part of Dev, aren't you?"

"Technically, Dev was a part of me."

"Was?"

”Yes, but while we collect all souls eventually, Death has no soul to call our own.

”Dev has a soul.”

Death did not respond, just turned to face Dev’s soul, looking lovingly at Rich.

Rich said, “Oh,” and left his body laying on the hospital bed.

Dev and Rich’s souls touched, merged, and with a smile, flashed onto the next adventure.

Death looked at the bodies, looked at the rings, one white, one black, on hands that would never let go. They saw the camera on the bedside table. And reached a bony hand towards it.

Two-dimensional beings hanging on dripping sheets from a length of string across my safelight room. The glow of red means stop, but the alchemy continues. Shadowy wraiths come to life, from the gossamer dead to better living through chemistry. There they are. Real people summarized and put in planar constraints for the tertiary beings who bring them out.

All of them hang there, lifeless. All dead from the last generation. Dripping with solvents. Emulsion sublimating silver iodide where zombies claw themselves out to join the living.

They survive until they come out into the light. Then they fade away, back into the word-of-mouth tales told at weddings and funerals and bar mitzvahs. A whole generation who could otherwise fit in an 8x10-inch album of faux leather and acetate sleeves on the shelf. Making way for the next generation of homuncular redux into one dimension.

One of pixels and data.

2019 June after such a long year of struggle, the months leading up so much so. I was tired, she was tired and having been a part of her dying for weeks by that time- I knew it would be the next day. I called all her grandsons, her other granddaughter- each who loved her more than the next, to come and sit and be with her before she took her last breath.

We sat with her and talked of the past, the stories she most liked to hear. She could not communicate much, but I could tell she could not see death... so weak and tired she was- but what was not there, was fear.

After a few hours the room became too hot, the night became too late, and stories from joyful reminders of the past to realizations of a future that would give us no more stories. Everyone said goodnight.

Through the quiet hours of dark the oxygen machine and I sang to her. I read her Romans, Psalms, and promises of God. I anointed her with oils, filed her nails, rubbed her feet, washed her face over and over until almost 24 hours after our gathering with the four generations she created. I gave her what I knew would be her last dose of medication- and she knew she got eye drops twice a day so I followed the schedule I know her brain was still aware should be. The next hour, I held her hand and closed the door to tell her everything I wanted to say. Her children came in for a few moments and said a few sentences of their own. They went to the kitchen to call and let the nurse know our Betty was shaking quiet disturbingly, I knew what was coming so I wrapped my arms around this woman who loved me the longest- trusted me the most- and as her body died I sang to her... Oh how I love Jesus, weeping out the words; sad for myself but admittedly happy for her. I knew where she was going, but not where I would be without her- and she was one second there with me and in the next, gone.

Necessarily awkward time went by as her family came in.

I changed her into her favorite pajamas while the funeral home staff was on the way, put her fluffy sock on her feet, and I do remember holding her hand, I do remember looking closely at her and wishing so much she looked anyway more like life. The most wonderful gift I have ever received from a stranger was how beautiful and alive and herself the funeral director made her look for that last time we would see her- several people whispered how alive she looked, how significantly more human she seemed. I took a photo from my seat in the front row, it looked like she was napping.

2020 June cleaning out my desk- their lay my old phone untouched for almost a year, I plugged it in and immediately went to the photos. There was my Betty- in that sweater she loved, her hair the perfect shape, rosey cheeks- surrounded by flowers and satin and I felt love.

then I swiped the screen with my finger

the very next 3 frames were of an old, bald looking, grey, slouched faced, pajama covered body... not a person. medical waste. I do not remember taking the picture seeing death- I remember taking the picture thinking how lovely I had gotten her before she would be taken away from us. but death is what i saw there on that screen not my gram, not my Betty, just death in a photograph- and the only time I ever pitied her was as I deleted what I should not have tried to keep.

When you've been beaten and broken down your whole life you tend to stop believing that anything good will come your way. That's not how life works, at least that's what I thought until I met him. He was nothing like how people described him in books or in movies. He wasn't some red horned beast with a tail and pitchfork. He wasn't this intimidatingly good looking man in a dark suit with an ominous aura surrounding him. The Devil came to me in the form of a child, perhaps he knew that I would be more accepting of him if he was a child. I never had the best relationships with adults, they always found a way to hurt me in any way they could.

“I have a present for you.” His voice is calm, comforting.

“Uh..where are your parents? It's pretty late out, you should be at home.” I told him as I looked around thinking this was just some lost little kid.

“What about you, it's pretty late for you to be out at this hour?” I was sixteen at the time and even though technically I was a kid I had obvious reasons why I couldn't go home, not for another four hours anyways. I needed to be sure my father was asleep and he was already on his sixth tall can, his tolerance for alcohol intake was high.

“Regardless, I'm older and it's not safe out here so you need to go. Are you lost, do you need me to call someone for you?” I looked around again to see if anyone might have been looking for him.

“Im alot older than you think. Why do you allow him to hurt you?” The boy asked and I froze.

“Look, whatever sick joke this is, you need to stop and get out of here, it's not funny.” I could feel myself shaking.

“Does it look like I'm laughing?” He handed me a camara, it was old, and an antique.

“What's this, did you steal this?” I looked at him questioningly.

“I know you've been hurting for a while and I'm sorry your prayers have not been answered.”He spoke

“What are you talking about?” It was a coincidence, it had to be.

“He's forgotten you but I haven't. I've watched you, waited for you to call to me.'' I had a million questions running through my mind.

“Look kid, I don't even know your name.” This kid was definitely weird

“You know me, I've come to you before but you've sent me away. He's not coming for you but I have."He placed his hand over mine and I could feel it. His touch was like fire burning but I didn't feel any pain.

“Accept my present and all your pain and suffering will be gone.” It couldn't be him, could it?

“Are you the D…Dev..”

“Yes, do you accept my gift?” His eyes searched for mine.

“What do I have to do….to make it stop? To make him stop.” Nothing had worked in my favor so far so why not, if this was all some sick twisted joke I'd still be in the same place as I am now so why not.

“This camera is very old and dear to me, it has power in it.”

“What kind of power?” I asked curiously.

“The kind of power that makes all your problems disappear.” His tone never changed, always calming.

“Including…?” I couldn't finish, I could feel tears trying to escape.

“Including him. Would that make you happy?” There was a glow to his eyes now and the burning that I felt before was gone now replaced with warmth.

“How? How do I use this power?” I was eager, I wanted it all over with.

“Just take a picture of anyone who's ever hurt you. That photo will be their death.” He smiled almost as if he was excited about this. I suppose I was as well.

“After today you will finally be free and safe, I will always be there whenever you call for me.” He stood, bending down to place a kiss on my forehead.

“He was true to his word, I was finally free from all the pain and hurt and he did come whenever I called to him, always as that child from our first encounter.

Time had passed and I had lived a happy life but I was at my end now and I grew so very tired. I called him but he refused to take me, he had grown too attached to me. He had forgotten that I was made of flesh and blood, that my human self could not live forever. Everytime it was the same, he denied my requests and I stayed and continued to expire. It had been so long since I had used his gift that I had all but forgotten it. It was still as I had remembered it. If he wasn't willing to do it then I'd do it myself. I had made myself presentable to whomever was the unfortunate one of my children or grandchildren to find me. Wrote them notes telling them how much I loved them and an amazing life. I told them not to be sad and to celebrate. Lastly, I told them I was okay that the place I was going had been a source of comfort for me, knowing that I had someone watching and protecting me most of my life, I told them goodbye and that this time I was finally free of everything. I sat the camera up, got into position and *CLICK* The flash was blinding.

“I had a feeling you would do it.” That voice was familiar but it was different.

“Are you..?” He was older now, not the child I was used to.

“I wish you wouldn't have done that.'' I was confused.

“I thought you would be glad to see me.” Although unconventional, I had considered him a friend, stupid I know.

“Do you know why I always disagreed with your requests?” He seemed almost disappointed. I couldn't get my words out, I could only shake my head.

“It's because you can't stay here with me, your soul is pure, you belong up there.” I saw sorrow in him. What have I done?

“But I've been killed. I…live..”

“I told you that camara had powers in it, you might have taken the picture but it all fell on me. I made it so you weren't involved." I don't know how he did it but the camera was now in his hands.

“I want to stay here, I'm safe here.” I pleaded with him.

“I;m going to give you one more gift.” he stood in front of me, now towering my height. I kept my promise and now it's time I set you free.

“I don't want you too, please.” I could taste the tears that fell, I wasn't entirely sure they were just mine.

“I’m grateful for the time we've had and I will always treasure your memory.'' I could feel his lips on my forehead. “Goodbye.” there was a second blinding light that engulfed me.

“She won't remember, like a passing dream. She will only remember the good and I will remember everything.” how could i not while i have her memories and photo with me.