Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

I would get picked up for another commercial shoot after Rick lied about me in all the important circles? I needed to have steady, supplemental income. Especially if I had to pay for the stupid Welcome sign.

A group of cardinals flitting about a nearby bush caught my attention. I snapped on my longer lens so I could capture them without getting any closer. The sun backlit them, creating small sunbursts in between the birds and branches. I closed the aperture to really make those sunbursts more prominent in camera. Although that would cause more of the photograph to be in focus, the light was the actual star of this shoot, so the sacrifice was worth it. The playful birds acted as supporting characters to add some movement and interest. I could always blur the background in post-processing if I felt it necessary.

When I got a few different angles, I moved my attention to a different part of the path near the water, switching my lens to a shorter length. Uncaring if anyone saw me, I lay down on my belly on the damp stones of the shore to get some eye-level shots of the water hitting the shoreline. I adjusted focal points for different perspectives—some with the rocks in focus, some with the water, one of a lone feather left by a passing duck or goose.

On impulse, I stacked a few rocks in a tower and took pictures of that from ground level and from above. For whatever reason, these types of shots did really well in stock photography. Something about representing balance and stability—two things I knew very little about in my own life of late. Maybe I could garner some through photographic osmosis?

When I had to up the ISO to let in more light, I knew it was time to head back to my parents' house. I still had to walk all the way back, and the light was fading quickly. I replaced my expensive lens with a smaller, lighter one and hung the camera around my neck for the walk home. If it bumped into something, replacing that glass wouldn't break my depleting bank account like other lenses in my collection.

I marveled again at how less peopley this forest was from Central Park. I'd barely run into anyone while out here this evening. A young boy throwing a ball in the reservoir for a joyous golden retriever. A man about my age walking along the path with a book tucked under his arm. A teenager running along the path. I felt a twang of jealousy at the teen's energy and motivation. Maybe I should start running?

Maybe elephants would learn to tap dance. I snorted at myself. Missy may be Mistress of Mean, but she was right about one thing—I tended toward awkward, not graceful. I'd once tripped over the small kitchen rug in front of the sink, sending spaghetti flying around the room and sticking to every surface. No, running was probably out of the realm of possibilities for me; I'd likely sprain an ankle on the second step.

I realized, as the reference to Missy filled my head, I hadn't thought of her, or my obnoxious ex, for the hours I'd spent in the woods with my camera. Creating pictures never failed to lift my spirits and remind me that the world was bigger and brighter than any one person or any one moment. I'd been in stickier situations than this and managed a way out of them. Hitting a sign with my car was only a small blip in my timeline. The gossip train in Piney Ridge may be fast and sometimes vicious, but it was also hungry. Soon enough something else would happen to pull attention away from me.

Seeing a light on in the kitchen of my childhood home, I sneaked in the side door and tiptoed up toward my room. If my mother caught me, I'd get guilted into helping with dinner. I really wanted to curl up in bed with my laptop and a cup of tea to scroll through the images I took today. Tonight, the tea would have to wait. I couldn't risk a trip to the kitchen.

One of my favorite parts of photography was culling the photos after the shoot. Did my vision come to fruition through the lens? Was I able to capture a memorable or important moment? Did I make a connection with my subject?

The pictures revealed themselves in the downloading and editing process. Not quite the same thrill as the days of film, but still a thrill, nonetheless. And, bonus, I didn't lose as many nose hairs from all the darkroom chemicals. Sometimes creative editing can enhance a so-so picture and bring it to life. As a photojournalist, I usually did very little to alter the photos I created while on location. However, these personal shots for stock photography or my own portfolio allowed me to play to my heart's content.

I heard my parents' voices drifting up the steps as I set up the laptop and external hard drive: my mother's fast and almost constant; my father’s a low grumble interjected in between. I'd almost forgotten their familiar cadence in my years away. As a child, I'd fallen asleep to the rhythm of my parents' conversations, their friendship and comfort with one another evident and enviable. Their unwavering devotion to each other even got us through Harrison's disappearance intact. I rubbed my chest where a bloom of pain started radiating, locking it away in the little box where it belonged.

I shook out the negative thoughts and tried to regain the calm serenity I'd felt in the woods. Sitting down to flag the pictures would help with that—take me back to the moments when I shot each one—remembering the light and the quiet and the stillness. I did a cursory, quick glance through each of them, flagging my favorites as I scrolled. I'd do another slower