Post by cestlamort on Feb 8, 2016 23:00:41 GMT -6
Probably shouldn't be posting a first draft of anything, but YOLO amirite?
this is going to have multiple posts, I'm still in the process of being written but I feel the biggest need to post it somewhere were I won't feel as much pressure to update.
One
I zoom in and focus the camera where a tree root met the lush green grass sprouting from the ground. Holding my breath, I press the shutter release and wait for the result to show up on the screen. When the image turns up blue, I frown and fix the white balance and steady the camera in my hand to take the shot again before comparing it to the blue one. The two are almost identical, except the one I took last isn’t the colour of sapphires. I turn the camera off and stand from my spot on the ground, my shoulders sore after having my weight propped up on them for several minutes.
I look up and notice the darkening sky and decide to return home. It must be around ten at night. Dread fills my mind at the thought of lessons, at getting up before eight in the morning and writing two final exams with a 30 minute lunch break in between. Just then, I see a group of silhouettes against the sunset my hand reaches for my camera. Even though it’s legal to take a photo of a person’s back without their permission, I imagine how creeped out I would be if my back ended up in some stranger’s house.
“Hey!” I shout before I can stop myself. They look over their shoulders at me. I gulp under their gazes. Suddenly I just want to turn my back and walk away. The thought of them declining the request makes me cringe at myself. But this shot would be perfect for my dad’s birthday gift next week. This is his favourite kind of photo.
“Yeah?” one of them shouts back.
I take a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm my racing heart. “Do you mind if I take your photo? I can send you a copy after if you want.”
“Sure!” the same person shouts again. I catch a bit of light reflecting off of their grin. They turn around again.
I sigh in relief. “Just keep on walking like you normally were.”
I work quickly, zooming and focusing, making sure my white balance is decent. I check to make sure the shutter speed is quick enough. Capturing moving subjects is more difficult than still life, because there’s a larger chance of the photo coming out blurry. If I get the shutter speed correct, they’re always the nicest ones I take. I lift the camera to my eye and squint, snapping the picture. When the result shows up on screen, I feel a surge of self-importance. To call it breathtaking is an understatement.
I walk up to the person who was shouting to me before, who introduces themself as Kaede, she/her. I give her my email address so she can ask for the photo if she wants it, then we say goodbye.
I wasn’t supposed to be out this late. I said I’d be back home in two hours but the way my neck and arms are cramping up, I was probably gone for six. Dad doesn’t like it when I stay out past five in the evening. I don’t blame him. It’s a dangerous thing, your government being overthrown by the Underground. They’re all about population control. With births on the rise lately, it isn’t hard to imagine what their officers did after dark. We’d be the first people they'd kill if they got the chance. I make sure to stay in open areas.
At the front door, brace myself for my dad to start lecturing me like he always does when I've done something I'm not supposed to. When he sets down a pad of paper and rises promptly from the armchair in the corner of the living room, I straighten my posture and erase expression from my face. I’m not a child anymore, I pretend to tell him. I can take care of myself.
“Where have you been?” he asks. Instead of the firm tone I was expecting, his voice sounds tired, drained.
Worried.
Surprised by the tone of his voice, my eyes skirt around the room as I try to remember what my reply was going to be. He stands still and waits for an answer.
“Taking pictures at the park,” I say quickly in a voice that sounds too childish. A second after, I remember what I was going to say.
My dad sighs and suddenly I notice dark circles under her eyes.
“Dad?”
His head snaps up. “Don't act like you don't know what I'm worried about,” he says. I blink in surprise. “The officers are still after us and you act like we’re free people. That's exactly what your mother did and look what happened to her.”
Shot. Dead. Gone.
"You're the only one I have left," I hear him whisper.
I click on an arrow and the screen flips to the next image. I wince when it's the one with the bad white balance, and quickly delete it. Half of the photos I took were decent. A couple would be fine to send to a contest. But the one with the silhouettes and the sunset could easily be on the front cover of Our World. I'm not going to submit it to them though. This will be for my dad’s birthday next week. Quickly, I run it through a computer program, which enhances the black of the silhouettes and the oranges of the sunset.
I hesitate before I click print. Is there even any point? If I was honest with myself, I'd probably be dead by then. And so would my father. I would be drawn for The Race tomorrow because the officers caught my mother, announced that she committed murder and then committed murder themselves. As further punishment, she died knowing her only son would be entered into the draw 1000 times.
I don't know why I feel so calm about my fate.
With a click, the printer starts churning before it grabs onto a piece of photo paper. I watch as it comes out the other end, the tones vivid and glossy, and imagine what dad’s reaction to the photo will be. I imagine it being hugs and smiles and tears because we both know what will happen to us. He’ll know that he won't actually be alive on his birthday. But he won't be scared because of that, though. He’s never scared.
Except he is. I can tell. He’s terrified. To think he isn’t is all just fantasy.
The photo will need to dry overnight. I should sleep. But tomorrow they’re broadcasting the namedrawing at school. I feel a splash of hysteria. Oh God. I’m not ready to die. I get into bed anyway and I stare at the ceiling. I’m not ready to die.
this is going to have multiple posts, I'm still in the process of being written but I feel the biggest need to post it somewhere were I won't feel as much pressure to update.
One
I zoom in and focus the camera where a tree root met the lush green grass sprouting from the ground. Holding my breath, I press the shutter release and wait for the result to show up on the screen. When the image turns up blue, I frown and fix the white balance and steady the camera in my hand to take the shot again before comparing it to the blue one. The two are almost identical, except the one I took last isn’t the colour of sapphires. I turn the camera off and stand from my spot on the ground, my shoulders sore after having my weight propped up on them for several minutes.
I look up and notice the darkening sky and decide to return home. It must be around ten at night. Dread fills my mind at the thought of lessons, at getting up before eight in the morning and writing two final exams with a 30 minute lunch break in between. Just then, I see a group of silhouettes against the sunset my hand reaches for my camera. Even though it’s legal to take a photo of a person’s back without their permission, I imagine how creeped out I would be if my back ended up in some stranger’s house.
“Hey!” I shout before I can stop myself. They look over their shoulders at me. I gulp under their gazes. Suddenly I just want to turn my back and walk away. The thought of them declining the request makes me cringe at myself. But this shot would be perfect for my dad’s birthday gift next week. This is his favourite kind of photo.
“Yeah?” one of them shouts back.
I take a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm my racing heart. “Do you mind if I take your photo? I can send you a copy after if you want.”
“Sure!” the same person shouts again. I catch a bit of light reflecting off of their grin. They turn around again.
I sigh in relief. “Just keep on walking like you normally were.”
I work quickly, zooming and focusing, making sure my white balance is decent. I check to make sure the shutter speed is quick enough. Capturing moving subjects is more difficult than still life, because there’s a larger chance of the photo coming out blurry. If I get the shutter speed correct, they’re always the nicest ones I take. I lift the camera to my eye and squint, snapping the picture. When the result shows up on screen, I feel a surge of self-importance. To call it breathtaking is an understatement.
I walk up to the person who was shouting to me before, who introduces themself as Kaede, she/her. I give her my email address so she can ask for the photo if she wants it, then we say goodbye.
I wasn’t supposed to be out this late. I said I’d be back home in two hours but the way my neck and arms are cramping up, I was probably gone for six. Dad doesn’t like it when I stay out past five in the evening. I don’t blame him. It’s a dangerous thing, your government being overthrown by the Underground. They’re all about population control. With births on the rise lately, it isn’t hard to imagine what their officers did after dark. We’d be the first people they'd kill if they got the chance. I make sure to stay in open areas.
At the front door, brace myself for my dad to start lecturing me like he always does when I've done something I'm not supposed to. When he sets down a pad of paper and rises promptly from the armchair in the corner of the living room, I straighten my posture and erase expression from my face. I’m not a child anymore, I pretend to tell him. I can take care of myself.
“Where have you been?” he asks. Instead of the firm tone I was expecting, his voice sounds tired, drained.
Worried.
Surprised by the tone of his voice, my eyes skirt around the room as I try to remember what my reply was going to be. He stands still and waits for an answer.
“Taking pictures at the park,” I say quickly in a voice that sounds too childish. A second after, I remember what I was going to say.
My dad sighs and suddenly I notice dark circles under her eyes.
“Dad?”
His head snaps up. “Don't act like you don't know what I'm worried about,” he says. I blink in surprise. “The officers are still after us and you act like we’re free people. That's exactly what your mother did and look what happened to her.”
Shot. Dead. Gone.
"You're the only one I have left," I hear him whisper.
#
I click on an arrow and the screen flips to the next image. I wince when it's the one with the bad white balance, and quickly delete it. Half of the photos I took were decent. A couple would be fine to send to a contest. But the one with the silhouettes and the sunset could easily be on the front cover of Our World. I'm not going to submit it to them though. This will be for my dad’s birthday next week. Quickly, I run it through a computer program, which enhances the black of the silhouettes and the oranges of the sunset.
I hesitate before I click print. Is there even any point? If I was honest with myself, I'd probably be dead by then. And so would my father. I would be drawn for The Race tomorrow because the officers caught my mother, announced that she committed murder and then committed murder themselves. As further punishment, she died knowing her only son would be entered into the draw 1000 times.
I don't know why I feel so calm about my fate.
With a click, the printer starts churning before it grabs onto a piece of photo paper. I watch as it comes out the other end, the tones vivid and glossy, and imagine what dad’s reaction to the photo will be. I imagine it being hugs and smiles and tears because we both know what will happen to us. He’ll know that he won't actually be alive on his birthday. But he won't be scared because of that, though. He’s never scared.
Except he is. I can tell. He’s terrified. To think he isn’t is all just fantasy.
The photo will need to dry overnight. I should sleep. But tomorrow they’re broadcasting the namedrawing at school. I feel a splash of hysteria. Oh God. I’m not ready to die. I get into bed anyway and I stare at the ceiling. I’m not ready to die.