Move your mouse over here!
Previous page

The Photographer

Hamid's shadow was smaller than usual. It was almost as if he was embarrassed too. He hadn't wanted to take the assignment: nobody ever called him this late, but they said it was urgent.

The old woman just sat there while he took his pictures, her bloodless skin hanging loosely around her body, as if it was a size too big.She had died twenty minutes earlier. In the old days Amazigh priests would draw the dead; believing that if done during the first day after departure, the soul could still be saved.

Hamid hurried home, his hand clenching to his camera; tonight, it held a soul.

Story by:

Robin S. Zagora

15 November 2017