For the Nonbelievers

In the cold, dark stillness of night, when the wind howls like a restless spirit and the candle’s flickering flame casts trembling shadows on the walls, the mind becomes a canvas for fears to take shape. Ghostly figures seem to emerge from the shifting shadows, their movements synchronized with the wind’s mournful wails. Familiar sounds twist into ominous whispers, and every creak of the floorboards feels like the footfall of something unseen. Thoughts of unseen watchers, forgotten nightmares, and unspoken fears play tricks on reason, filling the air with an almost tangible tension. The darkness, alive and unyielding, magnifies every doubt and makes the fragile glow of the candlelight feel like the only thing standing between safety and the unknown.

 
6° of Separation
Moon Dance
Or, The Beginning of the End
The Min we had been talking to about photographing the Moon Dance told me to meet him at the old loading crane in Kismet at sundown and he would take us to the dance. Clyde told me he did not want to go again, but after a little persuasion he finally gave in. I had Janet our friend drop us off at the crane that night so we didn’t have to leave a car on location. We never did return to the place we left so leaving a car would be a mistake.
One second, we are standing under the old large abandoned crane and the next we are standing on a windswept granite rock with drums beating as the wind made an eerie background noise. The Min told us we would only have about twenty minutes to photograph the dance before the moon would be out of reach and a different dance would start. We quickly set up the lights and started photographing the dancer.  We had brought three SB900 strobes and they worked perfect. I had made five or six perfectly exposed images when the Min said “Let’s go.” We quickly packed our gear and then we were gone.
When the Min transported us it was like a pleasant dream that you instantly forgot. You knew something happened but could not really remember.
We found ourselves standing on a street corner in a small town. Clyde said: Just where in the hell are we now. I replied: At least we are not in a pasture surrounded with cow dung. I looked at my watch. 5:27. I looked at Clyde and said: we are in Revenna. Where is the hell is that? With a smile I replied: I have no idea. I was looking across the street at the Revenna Hardware store. 
Four or five minutes later a red neon light reading “Café” popped on down the street a couple of blocks signaling it was time for breakfast. I turned to Clyde and said: lets get something to eat and find out where we are. When we arrived at the café I left my equipment out on the sidewalk. Clyde finally left his there also when I confirmed that I only thought there were three of us in town. Him, me, and the guy inside behind the counter. When we walked in the guy raised his eyebrows at our sight. He was short, 30 pounds over a comfortable weight and looked like he was four days on the backside of the last shave from his Gillette three blade disposable. Breakfast? Sure, I said. Where is the menu? He pointed over his shoulder to a sign that read: Breakfast Special $5.25. What’s on the special? Whatever you want. I’ll have eggs, ham, and toast. That isn’t on the special, he replied. How about three eggs, bacon and biscuits with gravy he said. Sounds good to me I replied. Clyde grumblingly agreed.
As he poured our coffee he looked at me and said: Were you on Half Dome last night? This is not like the half Dome most people imagine. It is just a large round outcropping of rock in a large field. I tried not to give much away, so I just said is that what it’s called? Strange happenings up there, he said. The old timers told stories about the place. Every few years somebody like you two come wandering through. One year we had to take one of them to Omaha. I don’t think he ever got right. So, we are in Nebraska? Yaa, he replied.
(This has been condensed.) Clyde and I finally caught a ride on a truck hauling cattle feed to Grand Island and then caught the Greyhound to Denver. The only thing Clyde said on the bus ride was he didn’t want any friends. What about me I said? He never did reply. When we got to Denver, he said he was flying back and walked out of the bus station. I never saw Clyde again. The last I heard he had moved up to Oregon. I was only able to photograph the Mins one more time and that was when Lila visited one Halloween evening. I will show those pictures in a few days and then put everything away forever.

One Summer Night

The soothing embrace of a summer night was shattered by the chilling touch of winter's ghostly breath, slipping unbidden into my silent chamber. Was it merely a trick of the mind, or the spectral echo of a bygone transgression, stirring restlessly to haunt my spirit? Forgotten battles and forsaken acts clawed at the edges of my solitude, unraveling my fragile peace. Must I endure these haunting reminders once again?

The Quiet Passage

When the ushers come to guide us, will their hands hold trembling pages, a chronicle of all we have been? Or will their fingers dance across a screen, illuminating our days with a fleeting glow? Will the moments of our kindness sing loudly, etched in light for the world to see? Or will the shadows of our hidden deeds weave themselves into a tapestry of unspoken truths?

Perhaps the audience waits, silent but watchful, as the curtain falls. The stage, once vibrant, will fade into the stillness of eternity. Will there be applause, soft and reverent, for a life well-lived? Or will we slip away unnoticed, exiting through the backdoor of existence—leaving only faint echoes in our wake?

And maybe, just maybe, it is not the grand show that matters, but the quiet scenes, the unscripted acts of love and grace that define our story. For in the end, whether the world or heaven knows, the heart of the tale is not in its witnesses but in the truth it carries.