The photographer ducked and weaved about his subject deftly agile in his movements. With two cameras crossing his chest in an 'x' the weapons were slung snugly across his body. His manoeuvres were in as quick a succession as the orders he barked. Rohan did the photographers bidding, positioning and repositioning himself according to the rapid fire instructions.
mate, raise it above your head
now look up
no, further to the left
straighten your arms
mate, I said look up
yep, perfect
Loaded with digital ammunition, the photographer took aim.
With his eyes to the sky Rohan suddenly realised just how beautiful the day was. A cloudless deep blue arched over him. Timeless and infinite he was dwarfed by its vastness. How had it all come to this? When did this publicity bullshit eclipse his passion? He traced a path through his most recent past with the hope of some sort of illumination. There must have been a turnoff I missed, a crossroads where I took a left instead of a right, maybe a misread signpost? But he knew better. This was no assault. There was no war cry marking the takeover. It was an insidious, invisible infiltration. It was only now, with his hands held above his head, Rohan realised he was a hostage to his own success.
that's it mate...I got the shot
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