The Photograph, Death of Bradley Smith Flashcards
Rich, emerald tent tops scatter the paper like shrubs in a garden.
They sit poised polite positions as if at a tea party.
A crimson car flashes by, between the concrete columns, leaving behind plain tarmac.
Approaching the frenzy is a short woman; she holds hands with a miniature girl.
The children point madly at what seems to be the highlight of this photo…what could be so important?
Aquamarine, hazel and amber eyes turn with curiosity to look over their shoulders.
One had her hand clasped over her mouth.
Wrinkled skin seemed to shiver at the sight.
What seems to be a sea of people looked in horror at a fruit stall capsized.
An array of colours had gently sprinkled the filthy, contagious city floor. I
. It reminded me of the time when I did an art project in the woods.
I hurled bright paints all over a canvas.
The carnage of the scene seemed amazing at the time. Trees covered with pestering paint.
Elemental mud mixed with my creativity; I adored it.
Now I take a closer look at the photo.
The olive-skinned stall owner opened his mouth wide to roar in rage.
His eyes turned blood shot with mortification.
A small boy is at the base of the treacherous mountain of fruit.
A surge of memory invaded me.
I recall one sombre day when my dad returned from work.
This was a most unusual return.
His hands trembled as if in spasm.
Traumatised eyes looked at the mahogany floor as he walked into the lounge and sat on his calf-skin chair.
He didn’t move from that place all evening.
What could possibly be wrong?
The photograph told me everything.
That was when I remembered.
He didn’t leave his job as a photographer for any ordinary reason.
He left because of the death of Bradley Smith … an innocent boy who lived on our leafy road.
That’s why he had put all his innovative and creative projects up in the dingy loft: never to be reminded again.
