story in rtf format
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He's never counted them -- a fool's errand,
he thinks. Thousands culled from the tens of thousands he has taken.
The ten thousand worlds.
Organized by year: '65 through 2006. Forty-one
years of a sometimes checkered but not, in the end, unsuccessful career
snapping everything and everyone from blank-eyed celebrities to dyed
vegetables, the idle, or spastic, rich to the tormented or numbed
and drugged-out poor, the exotic to the banal, the powerful to the
pitiful, the for no clear or any justifiable reason famous to the
irredeemably and punitively obscure. The boxes for the last several
years fairly skimpy, like the first.
He hasn't saved every single picture he ever took,
as some did. That seemed an unnecessary form of masochism. William
Lamb knows he is a sinner: he doesn't have to shove his nose into
every one of his sins.
It's hot, silent except for the whisper of a car
passing over a nearby hill.
He stands in his bathrobe, his hair gray and whitening
and unkempt. The young've all gone digital, they don't even know
what a negative is anymore! he thinks wryly. What have we got
here? He pulls at random and holds up to the light a dusty square
What have we got here?
A middle-aged black woman screams at him in skeletal
white, half-turned around on a stoop, glaring back at him, her eyes
twin storms of rage.