Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Once upon a time there was a man with a camera. He went around with open eyes taking photos of the strange things. He took photos of birds hopping along the ground. He took photos of leaves turning from green to orange. He took a photo of a child kicking through a puddle.
One day he decided to hold an exhibition, his photos of strange things. Many flocked, they exclaimed over the pieces. How he saw life and how they saw the world. Every day people would come and walk through his strange things. They would note the absurdities. Two doves sitting on the war memorial. The sunrise over a sodden landscape recently decimated by flood. One day the people came and the photos had changed. There was writing and symbols scrawled across the work. Messages of hate and sorrow. The show took on a new title The Vandal of Strange Things.
The man came and took a look at his life’s work. The words were disjointed, confronting. He sat and pondered. He pulled out his camera and started to take pictures. He took pictures of the words. He took pictures of people looking at the words and he took pictures of the street. He fastened his tie and heading up the street. He walked and walked, taking pictures along the way.
He walked until one day the words stopped. In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees, grass and birds he slowly sat down. He placed his camera on ground. He patiently unfastened his tie and took off his jumper. He rolled up his sleeves and breathed in. He unlaced his shoes, one lace at a time. He rolled his trousers up and sank his toes into the grassy dirt. Because of that his toes and feet became slightly damp. He stretched up, stood tall and swayed side to side. He exhaled and inhaled while closing his eyes. He listened and sank into the noises around. And because of that he heard a soft cry in the distance. The voices grew as he disengaged from the environment. The wind, sun and quiet. The voices grew excited. He opened his eyes and took a step forward. A step at a time he followed the voices. He stepped over logs, transversed a small stream until finally he climbed up a steep hill and saw a break. A group of children were running and laughing. Giggling and playing. Their teacher, a friendly type, was directing and indulging their antics. The children ran and ducked. Chased and swung. They lived and breathed every moment.
It was at that moment that the man looked down and saw himself. His tie and jumper were abandoned, his shoes and socks discarded. His camera was missing, forgotten, back on the ground. He quickly turned away and spirited down the hill, jumped across the stream and skipped over the logs. He swooped down and grabbed his camera mid turn. He pranced across the logs and dashed across the stream. He army crawled up the hill until he was perched on the rise. He snuggled down and raised his camera. He slowly adjusted the lens and changed the light. Then he waiting. He watched the playing, laughing and living until it came to an end. The perfect shot. He click away. The light was right. The time was right. The kids were quiet, lining up for class. Smiling and a little tired and ready to learn. The photo of possible things.
