Maartje (maartje) wrote in flashfiction100,


She clicks, turns the wheel, clicks again. The disposable camera bugged her until finally, she took it and shot the last two photos.

“Now you can get it developed.” She smiles at me, a big mischievous grin. I smile back weakly; I don't really want to see what is on there. Snapshots years apart, some of which I wanted to forget. The pictures will remind me of things I did wrong. A guilt trip over a stupid piece of plastic with low-quality film inside. I have memories enough of what is on there; why would I want pictures as well?
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