If Javascript is disabled in your browser, to place orders please visit the page where I sell my photos, powered by Fotomoto.
Wednesday, 30 March, 2016 01:48 am

When Life Comes From Above

Composed in 2010 on the set of ABC's "Off The Map"

Ever wonder what might happen

When Life Comes From Above

Published in Blog
Friday, 18 March, 2016 07:57 am


Once again Rachel Gardner spins a great web. Glad to be a part of this nuclear tale.
Photo supplied by the excellent Bill Draheim

Photo supplied by the excellent Bill Draheim


The plant was built in the badlands of northern Montana. It was a water-cooled “breeder” reactor, not quite as old-fashioned as the graphite models of the Soviet Union but still decades behind the times. Its last safety inspection had been weeks before, and it passed with flying colors. The equipment was scrupulously maintained, the staff competent and well-trained. 


And miles beneath it, deep in the strata of the earth, something hatched.

It had no name, because its kind left no fossils to classify. They had lived when the earth was still molten, a time of abundance for their kind. This one had lain dormant until it sensed the heat above it, the warm nourishment radiating like a miniature sun. It unfolded untold mass and journeyed upwards.


It had been five years since the plant’s last incident. Uranium salts had built up in a wastewater tank until it had gone critical. An oversight, and one the plant did not make again.

The plant had fallen into a post-inspection lull. The technician on duty was not looking at the pressure gauges or the thermometer. He was reading a collection of newspaper comics. He was alone in the control room. The supervisor was enjoying lunch off-site. The other technicians were in the break room.


The thing squirmed upward. It had no eyes, but saw. It saw violent waves that leaked through even the tightest defence measures, the short, angry crackle of fission. It moved torturously slow through the last few layers of earth, through the dull clay that formed the foundation of the plant. When it eased into the open air of the plant’s basement, any observer present would have pondered at what was generating heat-waves  shortly before expiring. But there were no men,  and so it continued upward. It left a greasy residue as it passed through concrete, a rorschach blot that would puzzle the workers in the weeks to come.


The technician scratched his ear. He was not an uncautious man, he simply had nothing to worry him. He laughed at the antics of a cartoon dog while the thermometer for the eastern array  began to climb. The early-warning alarms had been disabled years ago because their oversensitivity had led them to go off at the slightest provocation. The technician rocked slightly in his chair. Behind him, the pressure for the primary coolant loop began to rise. The technician glanced up at the clock, then, as an afterthought, at the sensors. 

The book dropped off his lap as he stood up. Years of training kicked in and he began running through a set series of motions. He noted down the various readings from sensors, pressure gauges, and thermocouples. Then he calmly walked to the on-site telephone and dialed a number.

“Sir,” he said in a voice that shook only a little, “you’d better get back here.”


Radium had a half life of a mere 1200 years. Most of the radium present in the earth’s formation was long since decayed. Plutonium was entirely unknown to the thing in the reactor, having not existed before 1940. The taste was not disagreeable. It disgorged its body into the reactor, raising the temperature significantly. It nuzzled its head into the fuel rods like a bee among flowers, drinking deep.


The supervisor donned plastic booties over his shoes and joined the group already present in the control room. They all had respirators at the ready. The core lay beneath them, separated by layers of steel and concrete. For all their failsafes, for all the prophylactic measures they took, the men knew that this was ultimately what it would come down to.

“How’s the loop pressure?” The supervisor asked.

The technician who had first noticed the aberration shook his head.  “Bad. We tried operating a few valves by hand, but it makes no difference.”

“Well, that cinches it. Somehow, some way, the coolant loop boiled dry.” 

This was a problem, because if the zirconium cladding the fuel heated up enough, it would cannibalize the oxygen from the steam, leaving explosive hydrogen.


The supervisor looked over the readings. The temperature climb was in a swelling diameter around one point. That point, he believed, was the origin of the temperature hike. 

“Turn on the secondary pump,” he said.


The thing in the core was swelling as it fed. The zirconium separating it from the fuel was no barrier. Like it had traveled through the layers of earth, it pressed past the useless metal into the nourishment.

A pressurized stream of water shot from a pump, aiming for the fuel rods it fed from. It was boiling almost before it left the nozzle. It evaporated as it hit the thing’s body. And the thing kept growing.


All was silent in the control room. 

It had only been a few hours since the anomaly was discovered, but it may as well have been days.

The temperature was still climbing. The east array was above 520 degrees. The emergency pump had done nothing to slow the gain. 

The supervisor was watching the gauges. His hand formed into a fist. The site’s telephone lay behind him. The safety officer’s number was on speed-dial.

The previous containment breach had happened on his predecessor’s watch. He had sworn, when he took the post, that there would not be another.

The technician who had discovered the anomaly stood off to one side. He had assumed an air of some authority since that morning, taking initiative. He took it now.

The technician strode forward to the console. He turned and made eye contact with the plant supervisor.

His hand hovered over the red scram button. Waiting. Both men knew the cost of a false alarm. Precious kilowatt hours lost as they swept for problems. Inspections. Fines.

The scram system would drop control rods into the reactor, take it to subcritical. It might take weeks to get the core back online, or it might never come back at all. But all that was preferable to a meltdown.


Something curious happened to the creature as it fed. The nourishment stopped being converted into thermal energy. It gained density, and its metabolism slowed. 

As it solidified, the water from the pump stopped steaming and became water again. 


The supervisor nodded. 

“Wait!” called a technician who had been watching the gauges. Like a miracle, they were falling. Water filled the coolant loop, bringing pressure back to normal.

The men in the room visibly relaxed. A few laughed. The man with his hand over the button drew it back.

To their eyes, the pump had done its work, cooling the core enough that went into retreat. It didn’t matter that the area that had blazed in temperature was dropping to unproductive lows. The removal of a few faulty fuel rods was nothing to the complete shutdown of the plant. Something to worry about in the coming weeks. For now there was the cautiously optimistic celebration of working men.


Deep in the belly of the reactor, something pupated.

- Rachel Gardner


Published in Blog
Thursday, 17 March, 2016 04:49 am

The Machine’s God

Bill Draheim became familiar with Rachel Gardner after reading her comment on William Gosline’s Spectictulive Fiction piece, The Ship, which included his photography as an integral part of the story.

Rachel then challenged Bill to come up with six photos that best exemplified her story, The Machine’s God. Bill used the surreal photos he composed on his Samsung Convoy flip phone to create a haunting abutment of words to images.

The Machine’s God

How it started:

I went to bed with a fever once and didn’t wake up for nine days. They told me I was incomprehensible, delirious, what came out of my mouth was like a traffic jam of words and animal noises. I woke on the tenth day feeling hungry. I made myself a fried egg sandwich and then I went to my workbench and built the first one.


The first:

It came to me in my fever dream. I dreamt of fire, of warm, liquid metal. There was no struggle, I simply held the material in my hands and it seemed to shape itself. I didn’t truly know what I had made until I turned it on. My sister came in the door when I had it in my hand. She lost half the hair on her head. She’s forgiven me since then, but I don’t know if I ever will.






The next:

I locked my first creation away under my floorboards. For all I know, it’s still there, under the rotting remains of our old house. The next I tried to manufacture with caution, but the work leapt ahead of my hands before my brain could object. This one scuttled away under the armoire. We didn’t find it for weeks, only its leavings. All the jam in the house missing, teacups broken, and the cat found stark raving mad in the closet. The search ended when I was putting on my greatcoat to go out one day and heard a crunch under my left shoe. I felt bad, despite myself.


The apex:

This was the one I came to regret the most. It seemed so innocuous when I finished it, made of old pig iron scraps and watch springs. I remember how it fit to the curve of my palm. But then it disappeared for a month. By this time we were used to the machines disappearing for a time after their birth, usually they turned up none the worse for wear. I began to worry when I heard the new mayoral candidate use words I myself had coined, a trip to town hall confirmed my fears. It had grown…and with growth had come a thirst for power. Before I could consign it to the dust, half the town was uninhabitable. Forgive me.


The demiurge:

By now they became as pets, or children. Small in my affections. I had created what seemed the entire gamut of terrestrial life, the insect, the dray horse, the worker bee. It was inevitable that I create something of a deity for them. It wasn’t a bother at first. It merely floated around the rafters, sermonizing the others in a series of squeaks and clicks. The others were quiet when it did that, so I let them be. Later that week I discovered a small shrine on the highest gable of my new house. The others were sacrificing themselves, hurling their tiny bodies to the ground below. Well, there was nothing else for it. I got my wrenches and went to disassemble it. The task nearly got the better of me, but in the end I trapped the thing in the furnace. The flame was violet for weeks after that.

The reaper:

I am old now, my hands have lost their surety, and I get lost in conversations I held decades ago. Like any proper machine, I am winding down for the day. A few of them, my machines, my children, pile at my feet, watching. Even if I knew how to talk to them, I would have nothing to say. They are all of them self-sufficient, and seem to take care of themselves. Yet they seem to look to me for…something. No matter. I am busy with my very last creation. It is not black, nor does it contain skeletal parts, but the function should be obvious to all who lay eyes on it. I start it up and hold my arms out for final judgment. One slice and I am machine undone.

Bill Draheim has spent the past 9 years working on various Honolulu-based TV shows and films like LOST, Hawaii Five-0 and Godzilla. Inspired by the sets, props, people and locations that surrounded him, a portfolio of abstract and surreal photographs emerged, all captured on an old flip phone. Some of these photos were used for this collaboration.

Website // Youtube // Facebook

Rachel Gardner lives in the part of California that isn’t LA or San Francisco. She has been published several times in the American River Review and is currently pursuing an art degree.

Website 1 // Website 2

Published in Blog
Tuesday, 15 March, 2016 04:29 am

Tragedy in the House of Mirrors

Tragedy in the House of Mirrors


Created on a Samsung Convoy U640




Published in Blog
Friday, 11 March, 2016 06:36 am

New on ETSY



Going Nowhere was created on-location on the TV show Hawaii Five-0 in Honolulu, Hawaii. 

This original photo has been composed entirely on a Samsung Convoy flip cell phone; no outside editing tools have been used.

The signed photo is printed on ready-to-hang stretched giclée canvas. 16 x 12 x 1

The actual colors are representative in the primary image. Prints are available in different sizes. Please contact me if interested.

Published in Blog
Page 1 of 2
You are here: Home Blog Items filtered by date: February 2016