Evening.
Fall. North Florida.
Bruised sky above rusted rim of earth.
Black forest backlit by plum-colored clouds. Receding glow. Expanding dark.
Deep in the cold woods of the Apalachicola River Basin, Remington James slowly makes his way beneath a canopy of pine and oak and cypress trees along a forest floor of fallen pine straw, wishing he’d worn a better jacket, his Chippewa snake boots slipping occasionally, unable to find footing on the slick surface.
Above him, a brisk breeze whistles through the branches, swaying the treetops in an ancient dance, raining down dead leaves and pine needles.
It’s his favorite time of day in his favorite time of year, his family’s hunting lease his favorite place to hide from the claustrophobia of small-town life increasingly closing in on him.
Screams.
He hears what sounds like human screams from a great distance away, but can’t imagine anyone else is out here and decides it must be an animal or the type of aural illusion that occurs so often when he’s alone this deep in the disorienting woods.
Still, it unnerves him. Especially when . . .
There it is again.
Doesn’t sound like any animal he’s ever heard, and he finds it far more disquieting than any sound he’s ever encountered out here.
It’s not a person, he tells himself. It’s not. Can’t be. But even if it were, you’d never be able to find anyone out here.
The sound stops . . . and he continues.
Use your senses. All of them.
See. Really see.
Imagine.
See not what is, but what might be.
Attempting to brush aside all thoughts of someone screaming in pain, he wills himself to focus his full attention on the reason he’s here.
New camera still carefully stowed away in the Tamrac sling pack strapped to his back, he has no thought of withdrawing it until he can see the images he wants to capture in his mind. Photography, at least the kind he’s attempting to practice, is not about snapping a lot of pictures, but what he’s able to visualize before he ever picks up his camera.
