Billy seemed bigger than he usually seemed. But I never stood this close to Billy before. I ain’t never stood this close to no one who ain’ my kin.

Billy done gone an’ took my book, the one with my special thoughts in it, an’ he read about how I knew ‘bout him an’ Tammy an’ he mad. Real mad. So mad he said he gon’ stomp me. Stomp me good.

So I’s skeert. An I’m thinkin’ maybe Billy don’ run so good on account uh he so fat. But Maw said “don’t say ‘fat’”. But Billy. He fat. An he gone stomp me today. I don’ think I kin run pas’ him he so mad. But ifiin I kin git pas’ the brick wall I know he’ll trip on the tracks an I kin run to the trains. The whistles be blowin soon an’ I kin smell the bread baking from the Bakery.

Billy stood in fron’ of the Bakery an’ said he gone stomp me. An’ I kep lookin’ at his shadow, so tiny behin’ him. And I thinks to mysef, I thinks, Billy ain’t so mean. He shadow is smaller’an him. And his shadow pretty big an all but it maybe only as big as me.

I wish maybe his shadow make him stop. Jus’ pull away from th’ sidewalk an tell him this jus’ silly. Billy, this jus silly. Or maybe the mens come walkin’ out o’ the fact’ry. See Billy gone stomp me an’ stomp Billy ‘stead. Stomp him good. I’m a good boy, I don’ mean no harm.

But Billy mad. He real mad. An I knows it – he gone stomp me an’ get blood on his daddy’s tie. Billy gone stomp me smaller than his shadow.

I was in New Hope, PA back in 2000, and I stumbled upon a box of old photographs at a sidewalk sale. I bought them, and paid more than I wanted to for them. It was worth it, though. Many of them are incredible. Some of them have shown up in collages that I have done or ‘zines on which I have collaborated.

This week, I drank Kettlehouse growlers with Rachel, and as we sat looking though the photographs, we experimented with using them as jumping-off points for writing. We agreed to choose one photograph individually, and then we would both write for ten minutes (it became twenty) using the chosen photograph as inspiration.

She chose the photograph featured in today’s post. I will include only what I have written, as she took hers with her when she left. In the coming days and weeks, I will post results from the same excercise here. By necessity, the writing takes place longhand, however, I have done no editing in putting it here before you. Comments/criticism/complaints etc are welcome.

Shaney Takes a Photograph

I could feel his hands on me. Shaney was laughing with her camera and her floppy hat and I felt his hands touching me. He was holding me. Tight. The sun was bright. It should have been a perfect day in Spring.

“Okay, now, smile!” Shaney said.

I wish she could see me. Take her camera away and see him and the way he was touching me. I didn’t want Shaney to take our picture. Not because I’m not pretty. I am. He always tells me I am. But I knew when she took the picture he would take me back up the hill to the house.

I was glad my back was to the house.

That way I could run if I wanted to. But pretty girls don’t run away, do they? That’s what he told me. Up at the house. When he would touch my hair.

I knew he liked to touch my hair. And his other hand always touched his belt buckle underneath his newly pressed suit jacket. His hand on his belt buckle. He wanted to touch my hair.

So Shaney took our picture. And the sun was bright. And when I cried they said it was because of the sun. The sun in my eyes. But I liked the sun.

There is no sun in the house.

In the house there is no sun and I can’t see his face and he pretends not to see my tears when he touches my knees. When he holds my dress.

And Shaney took the picture and he pulled me to him and he whispered in my ear and his breath was too hot on my neck.