The Photographer

A story about a young photographer.

    Alex let his mind wander as he sat tying his shoes, getting ready to do what he did on every day he had off.  Alex lived in the limits of some nameless Midwestern town.  He had grown up outside Milwaukee and though he lived there until he was twenty, he never quite got used to city life.  It’s not as if Alex preferred the quiet of the smaller towns, though they did have their charms.  The main draw of these smaller towns for Alex was the fact that most were within easy driving distance of some lake or river.
    Alex held some job or another at one of the bars in this small city, which was devoid of any building taller than two stories.  But he liked to tell himself  he tended bar only because his photography hadn’t taken off yet.  The two most important reasons he made himself believe his were that, one, he despised his job, and two, he loved photography.  He took what he considered to be excellent pictures and believed that if only he got his name out there, his photos would reach an art gallery somewhere.  He needed people to see his work.  He entered every photography contest and submitted to every art magazine he could, to no avail.  Today was one of his days off and he was going out to shoot.  He never knew what he was going to end up shooting, and some days he even ended up not shooting anything.
    He enjoyed these weekend outings a great deal, always finding a way to go out even in less than favorable weather.  Today he planned to walk around the edge of town.  Whenever he walked around town, he would bring a lunch and eat near one of the bridges on the eastern side of the village.  Alex made a last minute decision to bring a jacket, it was getting late in the year, and then left, pausing only to admire one of his favorite pictures.
    It was a picture he had taken while camping with some friends, shortly after he had gotten his first camera.  Alex thought that it was much better than a great deal of his later shots, beginner’s luck.  The subject of this particular shot was a campfire.  Flames swept up from the blackened log that served only to feed the growing conflagration.  Brilliant orange tongues leaping up, as if trying to reach the stars.  Subtle undertones of amber hues, barely visible, but still there.  It seemed to Alex that whenever he looked at this picture he could practically see all the complex air currents that fire induced.  An exquisite instant of destruction, frozen forever. 
    It really is beautiful.  Alex thought to himself before finally setting out.

    Walking more or less wherever his feet carried him, Alex stopped only to take photos, some of which he would later look upon and see as children to be cherished.  Others he would feel held only contempt for their creator.  These he would glare at for a moment, taking in every perceived flaw, then he would destroy them.
    On today’s particular expedition, the first thing he came upon worth photographing was an old oak tree.  He stopped in his tracks; in his two years of living in this town, Alex had never seen this particular woods.  He wanted to go sit under the oak before he took his picture, if he even would.
    Alex took his time in getting to the tree, but when he finally reached it, the feeling was overwhelming.  He could do nothing but stare at the tree, its gnarled branches reaching in every which direction.  It inspired a feeling of childishness and naïveté in Alex.  How could something so old still be alive, even thriving? 
    When he finally reached out a hand and touched the tree, his hand was only in contact with the rough, ancient bark for a few seconds.  But to Alex it lasted for an eternity, the feeling was so intense.  This could be the best photo I’ve ever taken.  He spent nearly another half hour positioning himself for the “perfect shot.”  When he finally took the picture, Alex thought the result was a superb vision of nature.  He had even caught an oak leaf in mid fall, drifting lazily to the floor of the clearing in which the tree existed, a testament to its fragile strength.  Alex decided that he would stay to eat his lunch in the shade of the gnarled oak.

    After the two hours he spent in the grove with the tree, the rest of his outing seemed mundane and pointless.  Alex did end up taking more photos, but they paled in comparison with the first image that burned so strongly at the back of his mind.  Some anonymous man fishing in the river; a cat glancing up at him dismissively as it walked down the rusted railroad tracks; a high school student limping home, carrying a battered skateboard.  Any picture he would have once considered a work of art left only bitterness behind when he looked at it.  This picture is the best I will ever take.  If this doesn’t make it to an art gallery, none of my work ever will.  I may have to start a new stage in my life.  God, I hope this makes it.

    Ten weeks later found Alex still at the same nameless bar in the generic Midwestern town.  The only difference being that it was his day off, and he was located on the opposite side he was used to.  Alex still carried a camera with him on his days off, but never took any pictures.  He had never much enjoyed drinking before.  He hadn’t had the best relationship with his father because of it.  But Alex found that alcohol was taking up an increasing amount of his time off now.  Besides, it wasn’t like he had any children to worry about.  He didn’t even own any pets.  With no relationships to worry about, the only thing that kept him from drowning himself in this slow poison was the memory of his father.  Alex would never let himself become that man.
    Goddamned art critic b******s.  ‘Not intense enough.’ they said.  They weren’t there.  They didn’t feel what I felt.  They don’t know what it’s like to create something that meaningful and have some ‘professional’ degrade it and mock it to their face.
    Alex continued thinking this way until he noticed he had tears welling up, glassing over the smooth surfaces of his eyes.  He wiped them on his sleeve and ordered another drink, steeling himself for the cold night air that awaited him on his walk home.  When it was finished, he got up and put on his coat to leave. “See you tomorrow, Mark.” Alex said as he walked out into the cloudless evening chill.
    They want intensity, do they?  I’ll give them intensity.  I’ll do something for it.  If the b******s can’t be happy with natural occurrences, I’ll just have to give them some sort of man made intensity.  Poverty stricken children seem to strike a chord with these morons.  War photography, God knows there’s enough of that nonsense floating around.
    All this and more Alex thought as he walked home.  Preoccupied and inebriated as he was, it took him slightly longer than it should have to notice the orange, flickering glow coming from the direction of his house.  When he did spy the light down the road, his spirit should have broken, had it been whole enough to break further.  He didn’t even hasten his walking, as he knew what awaited him.
    When he reached his house, he calmly pulled out his cell phone and called the authorities.  Upon hanging up, with a smirk, he raised his camera and brought the scene into focus.  The black smoke spewing out of every window, blotting out the winter stars.  The blaze of the flames, dimming what stars that remained visible, despite the roiling black cloud. 
    Just what I needed.  Alex thought to himself before pressing down the shutter and letting the fire’s intensity flood the interior of his camera.

Reviews

[Eric Kaun]

"distance of some lake or river", and "Alex held some job or another"- these sentences seem too...alike, and they're too close.

"see as children to be cherished"- the metaphor that the photos were like his children seems appropriate, but is it the right word there? maybe offspring, creation, or something like that.

"He wanted to go sit under the oak before he took his picture, if he even would." this seems..idk the word for it... maybe say something like " He wanted to sit beneath the tree to contemplate taking a shot of the oak.

"He could do nothing but stare at the tree, its gnarled branches reaching in every which direction."- take out which

use italics for thoughts

use different terms each time, instead of saying time off every time, say things like nonworking days, or days off, or vacation days, etc.

"The black smoke spewing out of every window, blotting out the winter stars. The blaze of the flames, dimming what stars that remained visible, despite the roiling black cloud." these are incomplete thoughts. fix them like- The black smoke spewed from every window and blotted out the winter stars.

You also change tense a lot. try not to do this throughout your stories.

All in all, the plot was very good.

[A.J.]

Very good. It's full of emotion. I feel the same way when I write, like it'll never be enough. One thing, in the first line you write, "getting ready to do what he did every on day off," I think you're missing a "his" between "on" and "day".