The Abduction: A Short Story

The young man walked to the back of the bus, placing the woman into an empty seat before taking a place beside her. Her auburn hair fell onto her face, creating a thin shadow over her lips. They were painted with a dark brown hue that had been smeared, and dried black trails of mascara ran over her cheeks creating a painting of beautiful sadness. He removed his jacket and placed it over her legs. His hand slightly lingered on the cold flesh of her exposed stomach as he pulled her shirt

As we know, the result of “Art is” is “Art is” which returned in an ephemeral form at the Studio Museum. All forty photographs are on display on the basement level of the galleries, which are supposedly reserved for pieces in their permanent collection. The room just outside, whether coincidentally or not, is filled with photos of students - reflecting personal memories. How the museum decides to play with this, is by missing them with old-timer photos of Harlem from the

He cried on my shoulder that morning in his hospital room when he saw himself in the mirror for the first time. The right side of his handsome face sagged, and he couldn't open his drooping eye. He didn't cry because of vanity, but rather because the image looking back at him represented a lost way of life.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing a notebook from his locker; maybe he wasn’t the only one experiencing weird paranoid episodes, maybe other people were too. My mind continued in thought as he made his way through the crowded halls when he stopped. Standing, staring straight up at me was three pairs of eager eyes smiling back at me. It’s the pink and purple girls, he

Wiping my tears from my wrinkled face, I put together all the pieces. It was like I just received a huge slap to the face, how did I not see this before? I clutch onto the diary, knowing it holds what my family went through behind closed doors. This ugly truth is the reality that I have been missing.

emotions are shown through the struggle she did. The story brings out emotions of sympathy

In Anniston, Abra opened her eyes and drew a large, gasping breath. Rather than jewels, her tears resembled a steadily rushing stream. She held her neck gingerly, rubbing at it and at the same time attempting to conceal her injury from her parents. It was sore, and she knew it would hurt even more later.

Amberly’s head was pounding now. She has had a headache for a month because her thoughts in her head were running crazy. She took a glance at her reflection in the mirror and reached out to touch the image of herself. A tear slowly rolled down her rosy cheek as the thoughts of choosing between her brother and best friend.

            He was a blessing that came and saved her, from herself. Those scars are reminders that they can make it through anything, and to never let your emotions get the best of you. Each night before they fall asleep, he kisses her arms which are covered with scars and says, "Baby, I fell in love with you all over again today. You're beautiful." It's been 5 years, and no blade has harmed her skin ever since.

She had not seen him do it, but she knew all the same. It was written all over his face, his flaws inscribed in his freckles, writing a story of guilt. Aurelia suffocated on air that would not reach her lungs. She believed that everything he said was probably half-hearted, half a lie, but she still wanted to believe in the half-truths. She wanted to fall in love for the first time, and she did not care if it was with a boy that did not need her, or want her. He had once told her that he could not bear to think about anyone hurting her, but last night had hurt her beyond any pain anyone had ever caused her, and she believed she had undergone a lot of pain throughout her life. She was ill, tears making her sicker, and she lay down in bed, holding her breath, trying to make herself pass out so that she would not have to deal with being awake with a broken heart. She waited, suffocating on sadness, and she wondered if she would die from a lack of oxygen. She did not know if her heart was still beating. She wanted to be in love, but more than that, she wanted him to love

Maxine woke up to a painful tugging sensation in her arm. It spiraled around, all the way up to her shoulder, and it was persistent. She groaned and rubbed the soreness away. Or at least, tried to. She had woken up like this several days ago as well for reasons she couldn’t explain. It was dull, as always, but it was still there.

Abstract: This essay reflects on the relationship of photographs, history, and memory based on a found and mutilated photo album. Photographs provide opportunities for disrupting and restructuring history with their attraction to memory; they privilege the subjective, creative power of the personal explanation and provide an emotional and even ideological grounding for memory. Photographs as manifestations of memory assist in the process of understanding the present.

The man's lips pursed as he attempted to gauge her inner thoughts in the brief time it took Analise to provide it. He'd seen the way she had appraised him, and an eyebrow had raised. What was she expecting? For him to have "murderer/rapist" stamped on his forehead? That image caused

Even though the truth upsets her deeply she realizes it was best to face what she was always afraid of: “... I’ve known it for a long time but I always closed my eyes to it, blocked my ears… I’ll have to think them over on my own for a little while.” As her eyes open to the truth, so does her mind and her heart. From this point forward, she can begin to move on with her life and fully discover

The set of archive images that constitute Sultan and Mandel’s Evidence, were the culmination of two years research within an array of government agencies, educational institutions and corporations: from the Aeronutronic Ford Corporation, Newport Beach to the Veterans Administration Hospital, Palo Alto. The artists were granted access to millions of photographs within these spaces and therein embarked on a critical process of appropriation. As Sultan states, “Mike and I, through the act of selection, became authors”(BAMPFA, 2012). Throughout the work we are focused on the notion of the photograph as index: the trace of a footprint on wet paving slabs, a passport photo next to a hand print in sand. Despite this very specific reference the status of the photograph, as an empiric document, is continually questioned, not least in the title of the work. The concept of