What’s My Line?

My focus for this set of photographs was “one line.” The object was to photograph one line. How hard can it be?

Any time I ask that question, the automatic answer is: Harder than I thought.

Lots of things I thought were only one line weren’t. For example, the edge of my house. One edge (corner), one line, right? Except for the lines of the bricks. The power line coming into the utility pole. One line, right? No, two power lines. Ah, the utility pole. I know there is only one utility pole. True, but it also has a metal pole alongside housing wires going into the box; that makes two lines. Here are some photos of objects I photographed in my search for Only One Line.

This is a ceiling beam. In my mind, I saw the beam going across, not noticing all the others. (I also thought this photo was in focus.)

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I really like this photo. One line, a silhouette against the clouds. Then I looked at it on the computer screen and saw all those hydraulic and supporting arms (little lines).

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One fuzzy line of clouds. And lots of little wispy clouds.

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A door handle. One big, shiny line. Not counting the line of the circle where it attaches to the door. And not counting the lines of the wood grain.

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One parking barrier. And its shadow’s line. And the yellow line of the parking space.

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One tree. I just knew this was going to be my one line photo. Turns out it is one line among thousands. Didn’t I notice all the lines in the rock wall? No. How about the leaf lines. No. The roof line? No. The lines of the tree shadows? Once again, no, I didn’t notice them while photographing it. I had decided the scene contained one line (the tree trunk) and that’s what I saw. I’m beginning to understand the issues with eye-witness accounts of crimes.

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Here’s the only photo I took with only one line it it: a vapor trail. Finally!

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Home Alone: Fiction Friday

The Friday Fictioneer Challenge: Write a 100-word story based on the photo.

Photo copyright CE Ayr

Photo copyright CE Ayr

Home Alone

Phil kissed Dianne goodbye before she got on the train, going to her mother’s for a week. A whole week to himself. But not by himself. His plans didn’t include spending one night alone. He stopped on the catwalk, leaning against the railing to make his first call.

As Barbara’s phone rang, Phil looked across the rail yard, saw a familiar figure walking in the parking lot. Dianne? But …? She must have gotten off from a different railcar and doubled back. She looked up at the catwalk for a few seconds, got in, and drove off.

“Hello?” Barbara said. “Hello?”

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The photographer, CE Ayr, is also a Friday Fictioneer writer. Here is his story, Boxcar.

To read other Friday Fictioneer stories based on this photo, select the smiley blue frog.