The light and The Photograph

In the stuffy archives of a museum there hangs a flickering light. It must be understood that the bulb is not faulty, nor is the wiring to blame. Every electrician, handy-man and janitor that has dared to answer the mystery of the flickering light has failed in the attempt.

The light is little more than an oddity, something the staff ignore as they busy themselves with their daily work. Sometimes the light will brighten, sometimes it will slowly dim until the glow of the bulb's filament can barely be seen at all. To most, the light is of little consequence and you may be forgiven for believing that yourself. But you must know, there are those whom the light has revealed its great and terrible nature. I do not know why it chooses some and not others, but the souls of these unfortunates are forever illuminated with the truth of the flickering light.

Mr. Ruthglenn, the museum's curator, was about to learn the truth about the strange light in the archives. Like most people he had never given the light more than a casual thought now and again. The constant blinking was an annoyance, but he could tolerate it. After all, he seldom visited the archives and when he did his reasons never kept him there long. It was during the annual audit of the museum's artifacts that he would learn far more about history than he ever cared to. One day Mr. Ruthglenn was filling in for one of his archivists, a nasty flu bug had hobbled most of his staff and they were behind in cataloging a large number of photographs from the first world war. Mr. Ruthglenn always enjoyed photographs, after all they are a much better tool to understanding history. Rusty tools and broken pots can be buried for a thousand years, but once they are found the most you can learn is that someone once owned pot. You are still left wondering about the people, what they looked like, how they lived — who they were. But a photograph captures a single moment in time, never to be repeated or experienced again. To Mr. Ruthglenn, nothing else can ever come close to being a true representation of The Great War's heroism, courage and dignity than the images in his possession photography. The soldiers in their uniforms, striking gallant poses and standing next to the technological marvels of the age. As a historian, he knew all of the hardships and deprivations experienced during the conflict, but those were always numbers and graphs. Of course there were pictures of the battles themselves — or at least the aftermath and while those pictures were historically important, they lacked the clarity of the posed pictures. While lost in his musings, the curator reached for another box of pictures. He gasped when he removed the lid and saw the first photograph, and the flickering light grew brighter.

The light stopped blinking and the less it danced in the cavernous archive the brighter it seemed to glow. At first Mr. Ruthglenn hardly noticed the change in the light's behavior, instead, he was fixated on the picture before him. The image he held in his hands was extraordinary. Mr. Ruthglenn had never seen a clearer picture from that era. Even modern equipment would have trouble capturing a moment with so much detail, stranger yet, the photo was not staged and the subjects were not posing. Framed in the photo, a French soldier could be seen shouting towards the camera. Every contortion of his leathery face could be seen in crystal clear definition, each curl of hair that spilled from the sides of his kepi could be seen in amazing detail. To the soldier's left two more figures are seen leveling their guns, taking aim at unseen foes. On the left side of the picture a young boy, maybe 15, was cradling the broken body of an older man. The tears running down the young subjects face were clear as day, tracing the sunken cheek bones of the half-starved child. Mr. Ruthglenn knew that the photo could not, should not be possible; the primitive technology of the period only allowed for still photos. Even when the subjects of a picture stood perfectly still for several minutes, the clarity of the image would not come close to the detail of what is in his hand.

After a moment the curator stood, ready to share his discovery with the rest of the staff. Already he was planning the museum's next exhibit. First he was going to assign an entire team of researches to track down the photographer, track down every known print they ever produced, hire an expert to authenticate the picture, his mind was racing with new ideas and his boyish enthusiasm reminded Mr. Ruthglenn of his first field trip. But as he stood up to leave the archive, he noticed that the flickering light shown bright and solid. Mr. Ruthglenn was unnerved by the strange behavior, in all his years with the museum the light was never this still, never this bright. The curator's gaze was fixed on the dangling bulb and to his horror the light began to flicker and dance. The bulb began to tremble and the light grew brighter and brighter. Mr. Ruthglenn felt a burning sensation in his hands and as the light grew more erratic by the moment his only desire in life was to leave that room. Searing pain now radiated from his hands, forcing his gaze towards the photograph. Horror, dread, terror all of these words could not describe the visceral feeling Mr. Ruthglenn felt in that moment. The photograph had come alive, the figures were moving, he could hear the shrill call of whistles, the deep thump of artillery fire, the cries of anguish and prayers to God. Starting from the edges of the frame and moving inward, the picture began to take color. The brass buttons of the soldiers caught the sun and the smell of death met Mr. Ruthglenn's nose. He tried to run again, but to his dismay something was preventing him from doing so. It was in this moment that a new figure entered the frame. A soldier, clad in the uniform of the German army, burst from the expanding cloud of smoke. His face was hidden behind a gas mask and the unkempt uniform was speckled with dirt and blood. Of all the horrible sights Mr. Ruthglenn could see, none of them filled him with fear like the raving figure before him. Like a demon gone berserk the soldier moved with mad fury, singularly determined in his goal to spread destruction in the ranks of the enemy. The German filled the curator's vision as he felt the impact of the soldier's bayonet thrust. The sun overhead began to flicker and dance, the light grew dim and as his vision faded, Mr. Ruthglenn understood the soldiers in his photographs. He understood the flickering light, he understood that each flicker is the voice of someone whose life was taken in a moment of violence. They call forever, their cries of pain howl out warnings across time, their light forever trying to break through the darkness of violence. Mr. Ruthglenn was found on the archive's floor and above the ground there hung the flickering light. The bulb is not faulty and the wiring is not to blame, in fact the light itself shines clear and bright, but is forever shrouded with darkness.