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Fiction, LiteratureJune 26, 2015

Martian Photos

Garlands for the Deceased

Garlands for the Deceased by Rabeya Jalil. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery.

There was no place to walk. I don’t mean the only option was to walk on air or into the sea but literally, there was no place to go forward. Sure, I could have scrambled over the debris but then there was the huge crater to traverse. Even a decathlon athlete would not have made it over to the other side.

Everywhere huge metal rods dotted the landscape. Twisted straight upwards into the sky, metal curlicues, long strands of pilings, wiring and electrical conduits abounded.

Click, Click. Another click. Not so fast—this is a medium format. Wind the film…9 seconds; set the shutter trigger mechanism…another 7…Nothing is moving. No rush. All the dead rats have been picked clean months ago.

Here comes a squad car. Silently it cruises the block, not once, but twice. I know what he is up to.

Another click. See the exposed wall over there—the cracks in the plaster are shaped like an agave plant. The wiring in the opposite side is irregularly shaped sunflowers. That jumbled mass of concrete columns with assorted wiring and steel rod foretells an invasion of silent Martians.

Another click. Here comes a squad car. Silently it cruises the block, not once, but twice. I know what he is up to. The bubble gum carrier stops at the shortest distance away. Non-threatening, but wearily, the guardian of the public trust advances. Better not to have the first words—let the man have his say.

¨Why, that’s a Rolleiflex! What model?¨

I’m taken aback. ¨Xenotar lens, 2.8. Not the best.¨

“I’ve got three of them. Well, you know what I have to say.¨ Warm-up introductions are over. Police business sets in.

¨Sure officer, I’ll move on.¨ I have just barely gotten the last shot in so there’s no loss in leaving now.

Two years later one of the photos is hanging in a contemporary art space. A man saunters over, looks at the one most popular of all photographs in the exhibition, and brushes aside the other onlookers. ¨Material evidence—that photograph’s mine,¨ flashes his city police detective’s ID, takes the photo off the wall and leaves with it.

Hardly noticeable in my photo is the edge of a woman’s garment—a woman callously murdered by a disgruntled lover. The photo becomes evidence in a murder trial. The man is convicted.

I feel violated. My private moment has become public in a way unintended.

 

Geoffrey Aronson is a former photography professor in the USA, now transplanted to teaching English to Mexicans in that country. Mr. Aronson moved to warmer climes in search of better cuisine, exotic Hispanic cultures and easy access to sand studded beaches. Formerly a teacher at the American Intercontinental University, he has upheld a lifetime tradition of seeking work at schools with long names, recently employed at the Universidad de Valladolid and Universidad de Oriente. He makes up for that by writing short fiction.

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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