First published in the literary anthology:
What Happened to Us These Last Couple Years? – An Anthology of the Bush Years, 2000 to 2008
Contains essays, fiction, correspondence, art, photography, humor, and poetry.
Edited by David Barringer

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Holding his breath now in the damp single room of a side-street hotel only a hundred yards or so from the mortar fire, he locked himself in concentration. His mind on single track, focussed, sidelining the blasts outside as he sat poised, holding the bartered scalpel blade over the steam of a kettle boiling over. Ready now. Trembling slightly. His nerves, his fingers like fuses ready to trip, poised to any sudden movement, ready to pull back from any sudden sound. In a dim lit room without heating, in one of the few buildings left standing he folded himself up under the bare 40watt lamp, leaning over the small token table and with the small sterile blade he carefully cut her out of the last photograph. With a little glue and a sterile pair of tweezers he teased her sun-drenched image in amongst the others. Delicately positioning her into the final space right on the edge of the frame as a blast rocked the sidewall, another claiming the street below. Lamps shaking, cries heard, plaster cracking and dust everywhere. Each flake spinning in the half-light like tinsel, falling over the work he wiped preciously clean with his sleeve. The bare white groove on his wedding finger now collecting dust.

With a sterile pair of tweezers he inched her into position among the sea of faces as if she were gold leaf and once she was in place, once she’d joined all the others he sat back, finally breathing out, his whole body deflating. The sudden release like air from a burst balloon.

He’d done it, as sirens sounded; his work was complete. Finally, after years of stealing moments, the work was done, his montage complete and he slumped against the headboard to look into each and every beaming face, only missing moments to blink. Imagining their histories, their experiences. Imagining their thoughts each moment his camera caught them. Each snapshot pieced together forming a thousand smiling faces, a montage of grins, each smile unique. A crowd of people, each caught up in their moment, each a snapshot of joy as he slumped against the headboard of a lonely single bed in a dim lit room, in another ravaged city, in another angry country and he couldn’t fight the first tear forming. No defence as the second slipped out. No way of stopping the third, the fourth pour down his cheek to sobbing. His whole body jerking. His face a damp quilt of lines as each momentary smile, each captured face looked past him and out through the window, blind to the mortar fire outside. Each face caught up in a past moment now gone, each one oblivious to both him and his lens as he captured their moment, their snapshot of joy now gone.

His camera.

Scratched, the case all battered, the flash burnt out from constant use but always a part of him. Always essential like an artery. Like a limb.

Helped him win awards as it swung from his neck in each ravaged city, every angry war in each angry country snapping away at scenes a man should never see but for this last personal work he only took pictures in daylight now. Always looking for the right shot, the right carefree smile. Another face to add to the collage, another grin to piece in. To finish it. To finally complete his montage, his grand work. Sidelining all the other shots he’d taken throughout his prize-winning career, his professional years, forgetting all he’d seen. Never looking back at his best work, his award-winners, front pagers, retrospectives and crowd pleasers. Soldiers burned in their tanks. Kids, limbs missing. The effects of cluster bombs and landmines. The lack of water. The lack of food.

His camera.

This once inanimate object that had taken his life. Always looking through it. Always a lens away. Always hiding behind the frame 4by3, 7by5. The case now cracking under the weight of all the emotion it’d stored. Soft tears forming, spilling out over the shots pieced together. A thousand lost grins, a thousand unknown faces from every corner still laughing, still smiling, each caught up in their own past moment now gone. Each one pieced together in montage to convince himself that the world was still good. That people were still good. After all that he’d seen.

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First published in the literary anthology:
What Happened to Us These Last Couple Years? – An Anthology of the Bush Years, 2000 to 2008
Contains essays, fiction, correspondence, art, photography, humor, and poetry.
Edited by David Barringer

From “Snapshots”, a book of monologues currently being written

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His face was like a national anthem. Always had that pride thing going on. Especially when he reached his late thirties but he’d still spit down the centre of stairwells just to watch that little line of silver pirouette to the ground. He loved it. That satisfying pancake sound as it slapped the tiles three or four floors below. He could spit through the gap in his teeth, even though he spent thousands trying to get them sorted. I never even imagined that he could get upset. That he could be sat in tears. Didn’t even think he worried about things. He always seemed so confident. Always had that sales thing running through him, even after work. That competitive streak. Like he was born with it. Like it was concentrated in his blood. Always seemed so sure of himself . . .

He told me that he had over a hundred compilation albums. All Best Ofs & greatest hits. Always blasting them out of the car. You could never talk to him when he was driving. Well you could but he’d never hear you. It was too loud and that bass. Made you wanna shit. I always thought that he left her. I’m sure that’s what he said. I always got the impression that he was glad to get rid of her. I never knew he waited by the phone, hoping we’d call him up. Invite him out. I never knew that. I always thought he had something else planned. Like he’d met some girl in a club and he was off . . y’know . . Take her out somewhere, buy her some food, get her drunk, tempt her back to his flat. After the divorce he bought this studio apartment right in the city centre. I never saw it but he pointed it out from the office though and from what he told us, it seemed pretty good. He said it was the most expensive piece of jewellery he owned.

I never knew that he felt he couldn’t phone us. I never knew that. In his note he said that the phone was like lead. Or that it burnt his fingers when he tried to dial. That we’d say “No” and he’d be all mad at himself for asking. I never realised he was so messed up. I really wish I could’ve helped him. I really wish I could’ve been there.

Poor bastard. Fucking good salesman though.