Memories

The image shows an old-fashioned camera resting on a faded map. There are three photos in sepia print next to the camera

there is something

about a portrait in sepia

the delicate hue and the softly faded smile

not standardized or digitized or posted somewhere in the cloud

save it – print it – don’t lose it – you’ll regret it

and always keep your memories

stored safely in

your heart


Written in response to SadjeWhat Do You See #32 photo prompt.
Image credit: DariuszSankowski on Pixabay

Shoot!

10:15. I’m late.  I grab my camera bag and run.  The whole world seems to be out, all converging on City Hall carrying flags and banners: some in support, most in dissent of our ‘glorious leader’.  I’m in the dissent camp. I’m also a correspondent.

I mustn’t blow it.  I clutch the camera bag to my hip and put on a burst of speed.

I’m opposite City Hall but I can’t get the shot.  There are too many people in the way.  The motorcade swings around the corner.  I have to hurry.

I jump onto the perimeter wall of the building behind me and scurry along, closing in on the action.  As I unpack my camera I see that the motorcade has come to a halt.  Military and security service personnel are much in evidence.  Assorted dignitaries line the red carpet which runs down the City Hall steps to the presidential limo.  The limo door opens and the man for whom the masses have gathered, steps out flanked by his guards.

I focus the camera, holding my breath.  If only those two security serviceman in their dark suits and darker glasses would get out of my line of sight.

Shots ring out.  One of the servicemen drops to the ground, bright blood staining his shirt.  The crowd surges.  I leap down from the wall, fighting my way through the confusion.  More gunfire comes from within the fleeing crowd.  But I’m already behind the car doing my own shooting.

A bullet whistles past my shoulder.  I spin round, eye to the viewfinder.  The assassin moves in, weapon in outstretched hands.  The barrel is pointing directly at me.

Another shot.  The assassin crumples.  Blood streams across his face from the single head wound.  Blood pools on the tarmac. My camera whirrs. Snick, snick, snick.

©2018 Chris Hall