Writing Prompt 36: Sulphur
Substance
One of my recent purchases is the photobook SÉANCE by Shannon Taggart. Taggart has photographed the Spiritualist community in Lily Dale, New York for the past eighteen years bringing together her photographs and writing in this beautiful, fascinating work.
SÉANCE examines Spiritualism’s relationship with human celebrity, its connections to art, science, and technology, and its intrinsic bond with the medium of photography. The book concludes with the debate over ectoplasm and how Spiritualism can move forward in the twenty-first century.
This week’s photograph of a sulphurous green thermal pool in Rotorua, New Zealand has always reminded me of ectoplasm or what I imagine ectoplasm might look like. Maybe something else springs to your mind. As always, let your imagination be your guide.
Green and pulsing, the ectoplasm began to ooze from her mouth. A sulphurous odour stung the eyes of everyone sitting around the table and Lilian's nose suddenly began to bleed. The séance was not going how Mavis had expected.
Usually, when her husband travelled for work, she invited a jolly group of friends over. They played cards, smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol lifted from the cupboards of their homes. Mavis and her friends would often discuss the frustrations of their lives. They had good brains and were more than capable of working. Some wished to raise a family yet wondered how they might hold down a career too. In 1902, the world didn't appear to be ready for them.
Mavis clasped her hands together, weaving a lace handkerchief in between her fingers.
"Dolores?" she said.
Dolores did not look well. Her head lolled at an awkward angle. The ectoplasm continued to drip and bubble between her lips. Nobody said a word. Everyone wiped their eyes and Lilian dabbed her nose with the edge of her linen napkin. Tiny spots of blood seeped through the fabric.
Dolores snorted, the sound so sudden everyone jumped and Mavis held her breath. Dolores’s eyes rolled back into her head. Mavis could only see the edge of each pale blue iris hiding behind thick, full eyelashes.
"What should we do?" said Mavis in a low whisper, looking around the table.
"You wait."
The voice came out from the mouth of Dolores, but it wasn’t Dolores’s voice. It was the voice of someone else. A deep voice that spoke with quiet intimidation. The skin on the back of Mavis's neck began to cool and fine hairs rose in a primitive arc of panic.
She looked around the table at her friends.
"Run," she said.
Story first posted in February 2019 // Photo: Tanya Clarke - Hot springs in Rotorua, New Zealand 2003
