"Mrs. Herbert Fisher" and was taken by the Victorian photographer Julia Margaret Cameron (1815-1879).

The Russian novelist Fydor Dostoevsky wrote, “We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.” We are all people-watchers at heart and, let’s face it, some people are more fun to watch.

Whether seen in real life or glimpsed in a photograph, some people exude qualities—mysteriousness, enigma, determination, eccentricity, otherworldly beauty, abject tackiness—that make us want to know more about their lives. Who are they? Where do they work and live? Who do they love and who loves them back? Are they similar to us in any way or do they seem to be an entirely different breed.

When we write a character sketch—a description of someone we know well or hardly know—we can try to flesh out the meanings behind signals like this person’s choice of clothing (“Why the cloak?”), that person’s expression (“Is she smiling or frowning”), and another person’s circumstance (“That couple hasn’t exchanged a word over dinner. Is it just a case of companionable silence or is their relationship fraught with tension?”)

The staff of Litrus took on a character about which none of us knew anything, Mrs Herbert Fisher, the subject of an albumen silver photograph taken in 1868 by pre-Raphaelite photographer Julia Margaret Cameron. We came up with all kinds of scenarios in which Mrs Fisher—or whomever we envisioned the woman in the photo to be—was by turns tragic, triumphant and sarcastic. The next time you see someone with an interesting face, or unusual way about them, see if you can get your imagination going and try writing about who they really may be. Whether it’s accurate or not, the portrait you come up with is liable to be a great read!

—Sarah Torribio

Pull the pins from my long-suffering hair.
It will spring from my roots as lively as
A dancehall girl’s, as fierce as Medusa’s
serpentine coiffure. Pluck the flowers
from my bosom. You will find that they are
staked deep, not just in my breast but
throughout my torso—and below. They
were planted by a man with a good house
and a good name who, like many before him,
would ruin himself for the sake of my smile,
which is all the more startling because it lifts,
like a dirigible, from the limpid planes of a face
so melancholy it sometimes scares me when I
glimpse it in the mirror, like the sight of a ghost.
Go ahead! Call me tragic. I will use the earnings
from this sitting on tea and toast, and I will
lick the crumbs from my fingers.

—Sarah Torribio

Melancholy dreams, ruby love
My world, once full of hope
Brimming with enthusiasm
The stars shined especially for me
But life went on and the lights dimmed
Battered by men and children and politics
Beaten by society, wore down by tags
Cramped by the mold already carved
Out for me

My pain intensifying with each conformation
Judged by the world’s unwritten rules
I wear my grief on my face
In hopes my daughters will find a way
Hope they’ll see my invisible tears
And never stay in their place

—Desiree Smith

“I can’t believe my sister picked this color to wear to the wedding. Doesn’t she know I hate pink? I am smiling. Really.”

—Patricia Ferrier

untouched Garden of Eden
precious as the midnight sky
a doll perched upon her shelf
come down and live that life
fall off that shelf and
eat that forbidden fruit
live to the fullest, reaching that shining star
settling on that cratered moon
snap out of it, raggedy anne,
the stitched smile is permanent and that
dusty shelf is your home,
unless you awake fro your stiff coma
and create that unknown!

—Heather Baumann

The kids in Manchester Square
all laugh and scoff at Julia Foolia. They paint
too-black heart moustaches and
heart tattoos on her fair canvas skin.

They gloat with glee
at the woman they see—
ill, stricken with polio,
her faded pastel corset
outdated and choking.
It’s just for sh—s and giggles,
For the kids who stopped to see.

Little Collin Jacobs,
a year everyone’s senior,
thought it would be funny to set her ablaze,
to watch her warp and bubble.
These broken children of Manchester city
stare blankly into their past
after London caught fire.

—Anthony “Jupitor” Garcia

“Mrs. Welsh, we cannot save your daughter,” the doctors lamented. Mrs. Welsh stood there observing her dear angel with the most melancholy look.
“I fear I shall never live completely again, Mrs. Welsh said. Her daughter was the center of her life. It was the cholera that took her Felicity away from her.

—Aaron Castrejon