His mind made the same sound as the shutter of my grandma’s old folding crown graphic whenever she snapped photos of her peonies. Click.
You always knew when he was capturing subject because he would grow very silent and still, and his azure eyes would grow wide and round, resembling a glass, circular lens. Click.
He didn’t take many photos. In the eight years I had known him, he had only taken four. One of them was of the the haggard streetlight at fourth and Main street, in the rain, when the light had turned yellow. The other three, were of me. Click.
One had been of me when I was ten, playing at the beach at his summer home, laughing. The second, I think, was at a dinner party I had been forced to attend, grimacing at Ms. Honeyworth’s biting comment on my figure. And the last, was when I was sixteen, looking upon the bed as they pulled the white sheet up over my mother’s sunken face. Click.
I asked him once, why he had taken so many photo’s of me, and not something prettier, not someone more interesting. He had smiled, a rare occurrence, and said, “So I might remember you, if you ever return.” Click.
The man patted his pocket, assuring himself that it was still there, the small pocket sized camera that would provide the proof that he needed. It would make all the difference to his future.
Kally
Duff didn’t need a camera–he was on the tail of Raina all the way, as they made their roadtrip
up 95–to Disney, St. Augustine, and Savannah. Vacation from Love, available from\Kindle for just 99cents!
His mind made the same sound as the shutter of my grandma’s old folding crown graphic whenever she snapped photos of her peonies. Click.
You always knew when he was capturing subject because he would grow very silent and still, and his azure eyes would grow wide and round, resembling a glass, circular lens. Click.
He didn’t take many photos. In the eight years I had known him, he had only taken four. One of them was of the the haggard streetlight at fourth and Main street, in the rain, when the light had turned yellow. The other three, were of me. Click.
One had been of me when I was ten, playing at the beach at his summer home, laughing. The second, I think, was at a dinner party I had been forced to attend, grimacing at Ms. Honeyworth’s biting comment on my figure. And the last, was when I was sixteen, looking upon the bed as they pulled the white sheet up over my mother’s sunken face. Click.
I asked him once, why he had taken so many photo’s of me, and not something prettier, not someone more interesting. He had smiled, a rare occurrence, and said, “So I might remember you, if you ever return.” Click.
The man patted his pocket, assuring himself that it was still there, the small pocket sized camera that would provide the proof that he needed. It would make all the difference to his future.
Duff didn’t need a camera–he was on the tail of Raina all the way, as they made their roadtrip
up 95–to Disney, St. Augustine, and Savannah. Vacation from Love, available from\Kindle for just 99cents!
The camera’s talking. Snapshots; Containers of potential. Light clusters pointing towards events in the dream. Recording the assessment.