A Zed and Two Noughts ficlet: an experiment in memory (time-lapse photography)
an experiment in memory (time-lapse photography) [A Zed and Two Noughts (a Peter Greenaway film), Oswald Deuce/Oliver Deuce, NC-17, twincest, 682 words, written for Porn Battle V, prompts: decay, camera, film, original entry.]
an experiment in memory (time-lapse photography)
Oliver sets up the camera.
Automatic sequence, one frame a minute. One hundred minutes. An experiment in memory.
(1) Oswald is in the frame, peering into the camera. Up close, his face is distorted, nose enormous and almost out of focus.
(2) Oswald is on the bed, not quite sprawled out, that awkward moment as his foot leaves the ground, before his knee reaches the mattress. He appears suspended, as though they've erased wires. At the edge of the shot, a blur is just visible, Oliver's hand moving into view.
(5) They're kneeling, knees almost touching, mattress dipping under their combined weight.
(7) The camera is reflected in the window behind them. It's dark outside, a perfect mirror.
(11) Oliver's mouth is open, as though he's speaking. He doesn't remember what he might have been saying.
(13) Oswald has one hand out-stretched. He looks as though he's pleading.
(14) They're still fully clothed. They're in no rush. Everything takes time, and this is no exception.
(19) Oswald has his hand under Oliver's chin, lifting it up towards him. The angles make them look different, Oswald's features softer than Oliver's. It's strange seeing two distinct faces on the photograph when they're so used to being mirror images.
(22) They're kissing, and for a moment it almost looks as though the image moves in front of them. Memory adds to it, remembers the touch of lips and the slick of spit and the tight grasp of hands in the small of backs. Oliver to the left, Oswald to the right, perfect anticipation.
(30) Oliver has his hand inside Oswald's shirt. It's only visible in the reflection in the window behind the bed, his arm ending sharply at the shirt hem as though amputated.
(35) The window dominates the frame, sixteen panes of glass each telling part of a story. At the bottom of the image, Oswald and Oliver, lying down side by side on cream sheets. Not touching now, a clear gap between them. They could be sleeping (they weren't) or dead (they weren't then). They both think it is the most ambiguous image in the collection. It is their favourite.
(40) The gap has vanished.
(41) - (46) Five minutes from clothed to unclothed. Both nude, finally, dicks nestled between their legs, still soft.
(48) They don't remember being unsure. Oliver knows Oswald as well as he knows himself, and Oswald knows Oliver; if one wants something, the other does too. Always the same, since they shared their mother's lap, both reaching for the same nipple. Yet they look hesitant in this picture, a moment's uncertainty.
(49) They're smiling at the camera, side by side.
(50) Oswald is reaching out, hand almost touching Oliver's penis. Maybe one of them moved a little too fast, jolted the tripod across the room, because the picture is slightly out of focus, soft and grainy like a much older memory.
(52) Legs fallen apart, and they're both hard now. Oliver from Oswald's touch, Oswald hardened without a single touch.
(53) - (62) They play this set of photographs like a flip book, watching Oswald's hand move up and down Oliver's penis. Oswald's erection is untouched. He feels the ache looking at the image.
(64) Oliver's head is tipped back and his eyes closed.
(65) A perfect capture, semen frozen in motion midair, the first sticky strands already sinking into the hair on Oliver's chest.
(70) The long curve of Oliver's back bends over Oswald. Oliver's head is in Oswald's lap. It isn't hard to guess what is happening.
(71 - 79) This sequence runs like a flip book too, Oliver rising and falling over Oswald.
(80) A kiss, feet tangled among the sheets.
(81) - (100) They lie, barely moving from one frame to the next, curled up inside each other's space.
Later, they fill in the gaps. Fifty-nine seconds every minute that the camera didn't capture. Fingers slide together flesh-warm over black and white photographs, tracing naked moments captured forever.
They put the photographs in a box, ordered, one to a hundred. A set of memories.
Some things never decay.
//
an experiment in memory (time-lapse photography)
Oliver sets up the camera.
Automatic sequence, one frame a minute. One hundred minutes. An experiment in memory.
(1) Oswald is in the frame, peering into the camera. Up close, his face is distorted, nose enormous and almost out of focus.
(2) Oswald is on the bed, not quite sprawled out, that awkward moment as his foot leaves the ground, before his knee reaches the mattress. He appears suspended, as though they've erased wires. At the edge of the shot, a blur is just visible, Oliver's hand moving into view.
(5) They're kneeling, knees almost touching, mattress dipping under their combined weight.
(7) The camera is reflected in the window behind them. It's dark outside, a perfect mirror.
(11) Oliver's mouth is open, as though he's speaking. He doesn't remember what he might have been saying.
(13) Oswald has one hand out-stretched. He looks as though he's pleading.
(14) They're still fully clothed. They're in no rush. Everything takes time, and this is no exception.
(19) Oswald has his hand under Oliver's chin, lifting it up towards him. The angles make them look different, Oswald's features softer than Oliver's. It's strange seeing two distinct faces on the photograph when they're so used to being mirror images.
(22) They're kissing, and for a moment it almost looks as though the image moves in front of them. Memory adds to it, remembers the touch of lips and the slick of spit and the tight grasp of hands in the small of backs. Oliver to the left, Oswald to the right, perfect anticipation.
(30) Oliver has his hand inside Oswald's shirt. It's only visible in the reflection in the window behind the bed, his arm ending sharply at the shirt hem as though amputated.
(35) The window dominates the frame, sixteen panes of glass each telling part of a story. At the bottom of the image, Oswald and Oliver, lying down side by side on cream sheets. Not touching now, a clear gap between them. They could be sleeping (they weren't) or dead (they weren't then). They both think it is the most ambiguous image in the collection. It is their favourite.
(40) The gap has vanished.
(41) - (46) Five minutes from clothed to unclothed. Both nude, finally, dicks nestled between their legs, still soft.
(48) They don't remember being unsure. Oliver knows Oswald as well as he knows himself, and Oswald knows Oliver; if one wants something, the other does too. Always the same, since they shared their mother's lap, both reaching for the same nipple. Yet they look hesitant in this picture, a moment's uncertainty.
(49) They're smiling at the camera, side by side.
(50) Oswald is reaching out, hand almost touching Oliver's penis. Maybe one of them moved a little too fast, jolted the tripod across the room, because the picture is slightly out of focus, soft and grainy like a much older memory.
(52) Legs fallen apart, and they're both hard now. Oliver from Oswald's touch, Oswald hardened without a single touch.
(53) - (62) They play this set of photographs like a flip book, watching Oswald's hand move up and down Oliver's penis. Oswald's erection is untouched. He feels the ache looking at the image.
(64) Oliver's head is tipped back and his eyes closed.
(65) A perfect capture, semen frozen in motion midair, the first sticky strands already sinking into the hair on Oliver's chest.
(70) The long curve of Oliver's back bends over Oswald. Oliver's head is in Oswald's lap. It isn't hard to guess what is happening.
(71 - 79) This sequence runs like a flip book too, Oliver rising and falling over Oswald.
(80) A kiss, feet tangled among the sheets.
(81) - (100) They lie, barely moving from one frame to the next, curled up inside each other's space.
Later, they fill in the gaps. Fifty-nine seconds every minute that the camera didn't capture. Fingers slide together flesh-warm over black and white photographs, tracing naked moments captured forever.
They put the photographs in a box, ordered, one to a hundred. A set of memories.
Some things never decay.
//