Time again for the infamous Sunday Picture Press at Indigo Spider’s blog. Some incredible photographs as always, but I must say that I was particularly drawn to and inspired by “Tilt Shift” by Eric Alder (http://bit.ly/r714Ww). Who wouldn’t be?
They were not far behind us, so the first time we stopped was at the bridge. But that was only because Anthony fell, face first, into the snow and didn’t look up again.
I’d heard his body thump behind me. Too tired to even turn around, I put both my hands on my knees and dropped my shoulders, my back, my head. From that vantage point Anthony seemed to lie upside down. Blood rushed to my head. I wobbled. Afraid I was about to fall again, I straightened up, my arms stretched out to the sides for balance. The whole world was blurred; everything except the entrance to the bridge that is.
The bridge. Neat, wooden crossing of the frozen river beneath. Covered by pristine, virginal snow. A narrow corridor, two hundred meters long, at the end of which was an island that held the truth.
“You dead?” I croaked, still not turning to look at Anthony.
A large black bird, startled by my voice, launched itself from the branch of a leafless tree to my left. The bird flapped its wings noisily before settling into an effortless glide, arcing gently above the river, completing a sweep across my entire vision. Windless. The day was windless.
“You know what your problem is?” I asked Anthony. “You’re always holding on to shit. That’s why you never get out front. You gotta let it go, man. Let it go. You want the truth, you gotta be like me and just let stuff go.”
I was out of breath after my rant. I gazed at the island on the other side of the bridge to calm myself. What happened instead was that a hot, terrible fury exploded inside of me. My body palpitated as fat tears bulged from my eyes. I spun around.
“Why, you fucking wanker? Why? Why did you choose to let go now?” I yelled at his body.
Overcome by anger, I found strength I had long thought gone. I marched over to where Anthony lay in the snow, crouched so I could reach for him, then grappled clumsily at his ragged clothing to find something, anything to grip so that I could lift him and throw him over my shoulders. I tore his shirt and pants in several places, but eventually managed. Dead or not, we were crossing the bridge to face the truth together.
“He’ll never make it alone,” I heard the hooded leader instruct his men from the tree line. I hadn’t noticed them there. “Leave him to fight his demons.”
I looked at the snow covered ground in front of me and took one step towards the bridge. Then another.