Dressed as a blue cow-like demon, the boy started taking pictures of the wall. The camera was heavy in his small ungloved hands. When he pressed the red button on the top an audible click could be heard and helped persuade him to take as many pictures as quickly as possible to hear that sound in rapid succession.

The camera was his fathers, an old one, one that was locked up until the recent garage sell his mother had. When she got to the box labeled 'Dave's' she sat on it and cried. It was a welcomed moment and she knew it would happen when she cleaned out the closet under the stairs.

She sold his clothes, but let her son have the camera. There wasn't any film in it, but it still clicked as if it was recording something.

He didn't remember his father, having been three when he passed five years prior. The little boy ran through the house, pressing and depressing the red button in the most efficient rhythm to keep the shutter going as fast as it would go.

He ran to the bathroom and started photographing himself in large mirror. His mother walked past the bathroom door and he turned and began taking pictures of her.

She smiled.


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Mark K. Writes (joined over 11 years ago)
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-Dropped out of two different colleges
- Attended a total of five semesters
-In that time had seven different majors
-Last major was Creative Writing (that's why I'm here)
-Has tried to write consistently for some time now
-Has a writing blog (http://markkwrites.blogspot.com/)
-Drinks too much
-Too lazy
-Bouts with depression
-Shares personal information freely
-Fleeing his home town to save his life

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loss hopeful sad first damn one


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