The Trail Camera Took Forty Photos Of Nothing And One Of Something
Frames 1 to 40: an empty clearing, one per minute, all night. Frame 41: the same clearing, and a face at the height of the branch I could not reach.
Frames 1 to 40: an empty clearing, one per minute, all night. Frame 41: the same clearing, and a face at the height of the branch I could not reach.
My landlord invented damage to keep my whole deposit and laughed me off. He did not know I had photos, or that the city inspector I had already called was standing on his porch that afternoon.
It called me from the treeline in her voice, and it said the right name, and then it said "come out here" — and my sister has never in her life said "out here".
You can shoot anything you have a licence for. You do not shoot anything that is standing up. That was the rule, and it was not a joke.
Every Sunday of my childhood my grandmother laid an extra place setting and would not say who it was for. I only understood the year I turned nine, and I have never told anyone why.
I counted the strides because counting was the only thing my brain could still do. Eleven upright. Then it dropped to four and it got faster.
At my cousin's wedding the best man gave a beautiful, tearful toast to the groom and his lovely bride, and used the name of the groom's ex-girlfriend. Twice. Into the microphone.
I only noticed because I visit my mother on her birthday, and the light was there all three times, doing the same slow circuit.
My little one has a rough mark over his heart and a story about a boat that was not his to tell. He named a harbour we had never visited and a man named Tomas who did not come back with him.
Between 02:14 and 02:31 the chat went from "is anyone else seeing this" to "please stop taking photos". Then someone deleted the group.
In basic I hated the drill sergeant who screamed about hydration and boot socks. Two years later, in a place I will not name, his stupid little rule was the reason I walked away from something that should have broken me.
One passport control queue. One shuttle bus that never came. Ninety seconds too late for the only connection home for three days, stranded in a country where I did not speak a word and my bank card had just been frozen.
It was never just one figure. When I wake frozen there are several, thin and dark, crowded at the foot of the bed, leaning in together like mourners around a grave.
She showed me the shot once, on the back of the camera, at 11pm behind the marquee. Then she deleted it and told me she needed the review.
A year after my dad passed, I dreamed him standing at the bottom of the basement stairs, saying "not tonight, not those stairs." I skipped them the next morning. The top step had come loose overnight.
On a quiet base at two in the morning I challenged a man in an old uniform walking the perimeter. He did not answer, did not stop, and left no tracks in the frost.
For fourteen years our cat ignored my mother. Then one ordinary Tuesday she sat outside her bedroom and cried until dawn. By morning we understood why.
A quarter of a million pounds of machinery went dead in a field at 01:20, and my father would not talk about it for the rest of his life.
A single bouncing basketball, on concrete, directly under my bedroom window, every night for eight months. This is the story of how I nearly lost my mind and what I did about it.
The company script forced me to say every caller's full name three times a call. Then Richard Bottomley phoned to cancel, and I said his whole name nine times while he slowly lost his mind.