Into the Light, A Photographer’s Journey by Indywatchman

This spoke to my photographer’s spirit. Reblogged with permission from

Into the Light

Old and blind but in love with light, he’d reach for the hands of friends to guide him back to bygone landscapes, once the subject of his photographs.

Often he’d reimagine how hard it was to interpret it just right, and now felt sad but free of such weights.

Then, it was a last fleeting cloud on a lake he’d let carry him into darkness. Breaking sounds of autumn’s crunch he’d leave a pond to compose, rustling the stream of reflected images. The panicked flight of frightened grouse; he’d allow the dry leaves and grasses to recapture them in golden yield; his freedom.

Even in the crimson awakening of an evening, he’d wedge himself, coiling into a ball without twilight ever lessening him. The man would swim in the fog and its very question was a longed-for answer.

Further, than any poet, his thirsty shadows licked up the ground. All this revisited in the waning days of a ninth decade by the pond, and an inlet pictured by its love affair with the sky.

When the watchman of the moonlight came to wash his darkening window, a heavy mist now presented disappearing worlds through closing shutters, often his hand would reach for larger apertures on his old camera, and the creator’s intent became the subject of his complaint.

But the ancient brush of the Divine artist was dipped in a cloudy sea, and the lighthouse he’d eagerly ascended exposed to him sceneries of celestial luminance. The blind photographer now having completed his assignment receded into the landscape, understanding, and now traced the vast horizon of unchained glory that he could once only imagine.

6.25 – Banditry

Allene R. Lowrey

Einarr bared his teeth at their assailants in a feral grin. So they thought they were raiders, did they? Farmers turned to banditry, fishermen who might make decent warriors if given a few years practice. They had spirit, at least. Sinmora practically leapt into his hand. He would teach them who they were up against and gladly – and then he would offer these desperate men a chance to get off this rock.

It felt like it had been ages since he’d fought against men who were actually men – since their unfortunate run-in with the Valkyrian Hunters early in the spring, Einarr thought. Unfortunately, he had not underestimated the skill of their opponents here. They did not so much put up a fight as receive a sound drubbing from the experienced raiders of the Vidofnir.

Perhaps a minute later, even their leader sat huddled in the center of…

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6.24 – Tracks

Allene R. Lowrey

The tunnel stretched on long past the point when fatigue made itself known in Einarr’s thighs. They had walked all day to reach the town in the first place, and now whatever had chased away the residents had also done for them. After a time with no sign that the source of the wailing had followed them, Einarr stopped and shook his head.

“We camp here for the night. These tracks are at least a week old: there’s nothing to be gained by forcing ourselves onward tonight.”

Judging by the groans of relief from Erik and Jorir as their packs dropped to the ground, it was the right call. Runa sat on her bag and began unlacing her boots.

Jorir looked about without moving from where he’d stopped. “Not a lot of room for a proper camp here.”

“Plenty of room to stretch out and sleep, though, and less area…

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