The Wellhouse

When asked for his occupation, Solomon would say he's a freelance photographer, but really, he never got paid for a single shot. In fact, no one ever saw the pictures he took, but if you asked anyone, they would tell you they used to be in magazines or books that have long been out of publication. He would often be seen loitering around churches, libraries, playgrounds, and always with a camera around his neck. No last name or proof of residency exists, but for a time, our complaint line was full of notices that our civil servants weren't doing enough to keep the old man away from the children. Every investigation we conducted showed no evidence of crimes or wrongdoing, so situationally, our hands were tied. It also didn't help that the children seemed to love him. Every single kid we interviewed had a hundred different things to say about the "Old Frog," as they had called him. No child had ever directly interacted with him, but he would always smile at them and would just "watch." The kids all said they would see him "at rest," asleep on the public benches in the park throughout the day despite apparently living just a short walk away. It would seem that the only people who disapproved of Solomon's daily habits were parents and community members who had a history of, shall we say, reporting the more "colorful" personalities in our society.

In my humble opinion, Solomon was nothing more than an observer. Him and that camera. It was his third eye that he could use to see the truth. To see what was hiding, past the veil. I'm biased towards my beliefs, and I'm willing to bleed over certain convictions, so in a way, I feel I think like Solomon once did. His camera was his light to drown out the darkness. Mine is a badge. Solomon's truth was something he couldn't bring with him when he died; instead, he kept it here with us. A series of frames/stills not seen in any magazine or newspaper but stored in a shoe box, size eight. Solomon was a size eleven. I try not to get hung up on this. A shoe box with some photos and papers is all that's left of a man. I try not to get hung up on this. His diary is deteriorata beyond most sense. Fractured passages and sentence structure lead through a cacophony of stories and anecdotes that make no sense to even the rats in the walls. A tale can be weaved, but with no clear plot or motive. No beginning or middle, just a tail.

In the shoe box lay several Polaroid photographs, which all have an air of preternatural composition, with the contrast and exposure effects highlighting a distinct feature in a room. The photos change with slightly different angles in each still and with different levels of effect, but the subject remains the same in each. Every photo, if viewed from starting order after opening the shoe box, seemed to be a continuation of the last, substantiated by a sequential number written on the back of each photo. A set of 72 in whole, with three extra pictures labeled "Suffi X's" tapered to the very end of the stack. By themselves, the stills really show nothing. Just a room in a house with decor from the last century. But there is an interloper there, among the decor. Unmoving. When all 72 photos are viewed at a rate of 24 frames per second, a three-second "movie" is formed. From the first moment, a cold and inhospitable atmos-presence envelopes the "film," scratching at the border and encroaching on everything in the frame. The camera slightly pans to the right and then softly forward and lastly up and over, showing the subject in all its glory. No sounds can be heard whatsoever, but at the end of the film, a low, "woa-" sound can be made out. Debates have raged about what it could mean or where it could possibly even originate from, but most consensus agree that it's the beginning of an exclamation. A minority of philosophers and religious conservatives believe it to be the guttural moan of a new genesis, of the Virgin Mary as she conceives the second coming of Jesus Christ. Evidence is lacking to substantiate these claims, but evidence is lacking to substantiate anything remotely involved in this case. Whatever the theories are, the frames exist and have been authenticated by professionals

The head of the biomechanical division for Geko-Bach Pharmaceuticals, Harvey S. Claire, has apparently written extensively about the "Solomon Film" as it has become colloquially known. According to others who have mentioned to me that they saw his papers about it in passing, Saint Claire argued that the structure that makes up the subject of the film's composition is nothing more than a mirage. A phantom image. A remnant of some bygone era that, like the shadows of those vaporized by some dirty bomb, leaves an echo for us to see throughout time. Saint Claire did concede that: "If there was a real structure in the middle of that room, and if not man-made, then it would have to be natural." It has been reported that students around the globe have built their entire college theses around this final statement: "If not man-made, then natural." Of course, I was not able to find any evidence of these papers or even the existence of a "Harvey Saint Claire" ever working for Geko-Bach, but my colleagues assure me that they have heard of him before.