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.
The drive home from work takes ten minutes. One ordinary evening it took fifty, and I remember every second of it, driving a road that would not end while the clock refused to move.
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.
Lost on a country drive, I passed through a small stone village where the people dressed oddly and no one had a phone. I could never find it again, and it is on no map I have checked.
Two working dogs who live to run. For eight days they stopped dead at the same invisible line and shook.
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.
In a meeting I suddenly knew every word before it was spoken — the joke, the interruption, the spilled coffee, the exact sentence my manager would end on. I mouthed the last line as she said it.
Two miles offshore, in November water, something was swimming with an over-arm stroke. The mate wrote "debris" because there is no box for the truth.
In our barracks there was one empty locker at the end of the row that opened itself every night. We welded it shut. In the morning it was standing open again, the weld cracked clean.
A friend took me to a place I had never been. Before we sat down I knew the crack in the third tile, the broken clock stuck at 4:20, and that the waiter would drop a tray. He did.
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.
I was the only night auditor in a half-empty hotel when Room 412 called the desk three nights running. Nobody had checked into 412 in a week.
Checking into a hotel in a city I had never visited, I opened the door and knew the room — the water stain shaped like a bird, the drawer that sticks, the view. I had dreamed it, I think, years before.
An inherited landscape hangs in my study. Its painted sky changes — clear when it's clear out, storming when it storms — and once, a small painted figure appeared on the road, walking toward the house.
Every night since we moved in, slow footsteps cross the landing above us and stop outside the nursery door. There is no floor above us. We live in a bungalow.
Hospital nights, I'd chat to a cleaner named Agnes on the geriatric ward — until HR told me nobody named Agnes had worked there in eleven years, and showed me a photo I recognised.
I am not a controller. I clean the tower. But I was in the room, and I heard three professional pilots take turns being polite about something that was not on the screen.
At Dad's funeral we joked he'd 'send a robin like the mugs say.' Within a week, one robin took up residence at each of his four children's homes — four cities, same behaviour.
My brother and I lived alone in our late grandmother's farmhouse for a summer. Every night we counted two people going up the stairs, and every night we heard three.
My daughter's invisible friend gave her one piece of practical advice: 'tell your dad not to drill the wall by the stairs.' The electrician's face when he opened it explained everything.