Page 71 of Florescentia

A lonely stool stood before the backdrop, lining up with the camera directly.

My Peculiars started around the legs of the stool and the tripod, their trembles a question of what I was doing.

I took my place before the camera, brushing my fingers through my hair, inhaling the scent of the perfume mixing with my fresh-cut iris. With the bloom by my face, the petals were soft on my cheek. Held behind my back was the atomizer trigger. It was set to capture only a portrait composition.

With as much stillness as I could manage, I squeezed the atomizer. A lightning flash and a puff of smoke went off with the camera shutter.

I was quiet, my Peculiars were still. I released a breath when I knew the shutter was done and I wouldn’t blur the image. I crept to the camera, removed the image plate, and brought it back to the table.

The piece of metal slipped into the fixing solution. The negative outline of myself slowly melted into a positive. The downside to having two different skin tones was that I would never have both perfectly exposed on camera. I aimed for middle exposure, which worked best with the added light of the flash.

Within the black-and-white image, a color bloomed around my impression. It was a deep blue and a small haze of periwinkle.

As I rocked the image in the wet solution, a tickle at the back of my neck, then down my arms.

Have I piqued your curiosity?

Luckily, I was a woman of demonstration. I was no stranger to exhibition, for myself or my inventions. At heart, maybe I was a saleswoman. A business mind. An advertiser who knew how to think backward, how to appetize, and how to fulfill those stirrings.

The second plate was strapped into the back of the camera, just like before. The flash powder was refilled in its holder.

With the trigger in hand, I returned to my place. I waited for something, I didn’t know what. But I felt the presence, something watching. Some said audiences made it harder to perform. In my experience, I could agree to that sentiment. It was different with an audience of one curious creature.

I opened my robe, exposing my chest down the middle.

My skin began to tingle, a low vibration just subtle enough to almost miss it. My markings cast a subtle glow, welcoming what awaited in the dark.

He was here. He just wasn’t ready to be known.

I traced the flower head along my cheek, then languidly across my neck. I swore I could feel my skin electrify under the touch. The scent was strong, burning the inside of my nose the more time I spent around it. I dragged it over my chest and between my breasts, a light tickle.

I squeezed the trigger again.

A snap and an explosion, a blinding light. My vision was burned, but it slowly faded as my eyes adjusted.

It was safe to breathe again, but I held back. I was still, searching the dark room for movement. There was a ringing in my ears, my skin roughened as the hairs stood on end.

“Are you shy?” I said aloud.

It was ridiculous, calling into the dark like that. But I knew he was there, whether he wanted to show himself or not.

There was no reply.

I slipped off the stool, removed the plate from the back of the camera, and returned to the table. The second plate slid into the solution. There I was again, a mirage etched into the metal. You couldn’t see the glow of my patterns with the flash, but a white ring around my iris was prominent.

The colors began to form, a slow development of blue and purple.

Then it all darkened.

The colors turned black in an instant, like a poorly done titration. The image was gone, just a black slate, and the only things visible were the ones that glowed. The things that recognized the void—my eyes and markings, bright as ever in the sensitive film.

I prepped the camera for the last time, latching in the final plate.

With the knowledge of his presence, I went slower this time. Adjusting the bellows, wiping the lens, refilling the flash, even checking the extended trigger. Once I was done with that, I took time to inspect the tripod, my nails.

I stepped toward the stool, but just as I was about to reach it, I turned around as if my silly little head had forgotten something.

The stool flew over my head and hit the shutters of the window, landing on top of my workbench. The chemicals splashed, the metal plates chiming against each other as they hit the floor.