Apocalyptic Thought

Her hair . My gaze is hard and long- awkward even. I don’t break it, well…I don’t want to, so I keep it there, exponentially increasing my creepiness factor. I’m not a fan of spooking strangers, even beautiful ones, but  the dirty-old-man in me quietly heckles, forcing me to bring my camera to my eye. I put my disturbing habit to work. It’s the one job where you can stare at whatever you want, and not freak people out. - I knew I was going to be at this event all day, so in the beginning I took pictures almost at random. The newspaper wanted general shots of people to compliment a write up of the charity run, but I always like to go a little further than my pay grade would allow. At an event like this, I could easily take a 1,000 pictures. The ratio for great pictures tends to be roughly 100:1, so it’s alway best to be safe. My relationship with SD cards grew since I picked up a camera. I never usually get so weird on the job, but my first great shot was of her. She was in a

It’s quiet. Brittney can feel the room around her. A chill leaks from what only can be a window. A dampness floats around her. A fear pains her chest, shortening her breaths. It tightens the skin on her forearms. She thinks of the hair on them, and how she always meant to shave them; the dark, long follicles that make her feel manly. She frowns. Nobody cares about the hairiness of a dead, black woman. The cloth around her eyes is soft. It does not allow any light, yet it’s the most pleasurable experience of the past few days. Her nostrils flare, defending her from the pungent smell of mold. Her stomach flexes, threatening to project what little food was given to her.  Vomiting has been a concern for the last few hours, but she whisked it away. Thoughts of puking past, but something catches her attention. Her eardrums pick up the soft vibrations the rest of her body ignores. Her lungs freeze. Someone was in the room with her. She listens for movement, but only hears bre