A Storyteller

Click

The satisfying sound of the shutter opening and closing never ceased to bring a thin smile to my lips. My finger released the button and I lowered the camera, my eyes still stuck on the focus of the picture. 

Ahead of me was the culprit who had captured the attention of both my eyes and my camera. A puppeteer whose delicate fingers fluttered around, bringing the wooden figure to life. The woman led the puppet all across the stage, dancing and posing while she narrated a classic story of a prince saving a princess from a tall tower protected by a dragon. Sure, it was a bit overdone, but who doesn’t enjoy a good fairytale? It’s a break from reality after all. 

I tore my gaze away from the dynamic puppeteer and flicked through the photos I had already captured. The lighting in the little theater was ideal for stage photography and I was somewhat pleased with my work, but I knew I could do better. 

The puppeteer finished the story with a charismatic bow from the puppet, and the audience erupted into applause and loud cheers. I let my camera hang around my neck and politely clapped along. As I ducked through the crowd of people leaving, an usher thanked me for stopping by and I simply smiled and nodded. 

As I stepped out onto the snowy sidewalk, I made sure to wrap my scarf around my camera protectively. 

Where to next? I thought to myself. 

My feet picked a direction and off I went. Something would draw my attention soon enough, I was certain of it. New York City in the winter is as charming as it is hectic. A lively city brimming with experiences to share, and I wanted to collect them all. 

Down the street I went, boots crunching on the thin layer of snowfall. A street vendor called out to me, no doubt offering me a discount for a hot dog, but I just smiled and shook my head. My mind wandered to and fro as I anticipated something else catching my attention. My fingers twitched where they cradled my camera. 

Soon enough, the sounds of a chattering crowd, slicing of skate meeting ice, and a slow rendition of La Vie En Rose were enough to direct my footsteps to the left. I approached the ice rink, ducking between people until I was able to find an open spot near the edge. An ice dancer was twirling and spinning on the ice, her blue dress sparkling with every turn. Her strong movements pushed and pulled me through a tale in my mind. Her expressions flowed as smoothly as her arms. I felt myself becoming entranced with the story. There was love, then tragedy. Reconciliation and forgiveness. I lifted my camera and snapped a couple shots, set on grabbing the desperation the dancer encapsulated with her entire body. It was nothing short of remarkable, how a story could be portrayed so perfectly with just someone’s body. 

I moved on. 

I needed something else. More pictures. More stories. More. 

I felt my throat tighten up. 

Must be the cold air. 

I tugged my scarf up to cover my mouth and nose as I continued my walk. Dusk had fallen over the city, but that didn’t quell the bustling nature of the area. My ears perked up at the sound of an acoustic guitar being played. I followed the music to a subway entrance and I didn’t hesitate before descending the stairs into the tunnel. A man was sitting on a stool next to the wall, his guitar case open on the ground. A couple of passers-by dropped coins into the case and the man nodded in thanks. 

I approached the man but stopped at a distance, listening and observing. It was clear he had been playing for awhile, but was no expert. His guitar was run-down and one of the strings was slightly out of tune. No doubt a result of the frigid air blowing through the tunnel. His hands formed various shapes for each chord, jumping frets while the fingers on his other hand plucked the strings with such care.  

Was the guitar a gift from a loved one? Who taught you to play? I wanted to ask. Out of all the instruments to choose from, why guitar? 

Frustration brewed in my chest from the unasked questions. 

I noticed the man glance up at me, not missing a note. Without wasting another second, I raised my camera and snapped a picture of his toothy grin. He kept playing the joyful melody with a mix of strumming the strings and plucking them. 

I wonder why he doesn’t sing along. 

I angled the camera a bit, trying to capture his shadow on the tunnel wall. It was then that the song seemingly ended. 

What was that song called? What is it about? 

“That was one I wrote for my wife ‘fore she passed.” 

My eyes snapped up to meet the man. It was as if he had heard my thoughts. 

“Cancer. It’s alright, I know you wanted to ask. It was a decade back and I still miss everything about her. Figure if I play my songs for her it’ll keep her life fresh in my memory. Thanks for listening.” 

I smiled and took a few steps closer, turning my camera to show him the shots I had gotten. 

“Hey, you got some real talent there,” the man said with a chuckle. “You’re a real artist.” 

I clasped my hands together in thanks, wishing I could express to the man how much those words meant. But it was time for me to go. I turned and exited the tunnel while the man started playing again. 

You don’t find that kind of love everyday. 

I began the walk back to my apartment. I had taken the route so often that I could probably make it back with my eyes closed. I was tempted to shut them anyway as I passed a familiar sign. 

‘Open Mic Poetry Night.’ It read. I forced myself to divert my attention elsewhere. 

“Hey!” 

I inwardly cringed at the voice, but turned around anyway. The tone was all too familiar and I knew exactly the kind of interaction I was about to have. 

The girl who had approached me had rosy cheeks and an excited smile. I almost felt bad for what was about to happen. 

“Y…you’re Jamie Connor!” She gestured to the establishment behind her. “I used to come here all the time to hear you perform your poetry. You have a way with words, it’s just incredible. So many of your poems have inspired me, but you haven’t shared your work in awhile, can I ask why?” 

Another fan I’ve let down. 

On instinct, I reached into my purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it to the girl. I watched her face go from intrigued to distraught. I was almost tempted to take a few pictures of the process. She lowered the clipping with the one look in her eyes that I hated. 

Pity. 

She pitied me. 

But I couldn’t really blame her, could I? My story is a bit tragic. Let me tell it to you. 

A girl, star-bright with a passion for words,

Crafting them like an artist,

Molding them like clay,

A story-teller like no other, with a voice as sweet as sugar. 

A family to surround her and support her,

Encouragement warm like the hearth of a fireplace, 

But things can’t go too well forever,

Misfortune is bound to us all. 

Tragedy strikes, 

A stolen family.

A stolen voice. 

A stolen story. 

I’d pity anyone who had gone through what I did. I gently took the newspaper clipping from her outstretched hand and offered her a sad smile. My life looked a lot different now, but I was still a storyteller. 

When I finally reached my apartment, I immediately entered my makeshift darkroom to develop my pictures. I moved through the process without thinking, loading the film, soaking it, then hanging it to dry. 

I was pleased with the outcomes of the photos. I was pleased with the stories I had captured today. A fairytale love demonstrated by a puppet, a doomed love portrayed through an ice dance, and a gentle love told through a song.

I left the dark room and sat at my desk. I allowed myself to brush my fingertips along the edge of an old photo. It was bad quality, taken on a disposable camera. The lighting was questionable and the target was off center. It was still one of my favorites. My mother had taken it of me at my first poetry reading. A layer of nostalgia rested on it almost as heavy as the layer of dust covering the film. 

I plan to go out tomorrow for more pictures. After all, poetry isn’t the only way to tell a story.