She captures the moments everybody seems to miss. He brushes off the fact that so-called magic locked inside them.
This book is dedicated to Frances, a very dear friend of mine on Wattpad who passed away in 2015. I was very devastated with her death. She truly inspired me to become a better author and person.
III. Author's Note
Hi, I'm Nicola Uy, also known as @RealisticWriting on Wattpad. This is my first book to be published on Tablo, so I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for reading!
Portsville is a tiny town far, far away from the city. It is dull, boring, and lifeless, in my opinion. It has a population of only a hundred people. Barely any activities occur in that town. It has never been featured in a newspaper before. In short, if one imagines a 'tiny town', Portsville would come into their mind. Well, except for the ice cream parlor, secret hiding spots, and the lake. In fact, I am certain that a picture of Portsville will be in the dictionary along with the definition of 'tiny town'. Anyway, each person carries out their lives peacefully. There are no fights, no arguments. There is only harmony, tranquility, serenity. And then, the great floods came and wrecked it all.
The floods battered the town and squeezed the last drop of life out of it. The only thing Portsville's residents could do was watch as the town near to their hearts collapsed under the hand of mighty winds and rushing water. Never were the people and the town the same way ever again.
I am assigned by the chief editor of the newspaper I work for every summer to cover the news from Portsville. As an amateur photographer, I am unsure of this assignment. I believe that I would not be able to receive much information and take many awe-inspiring photos in this wretched tiny town. I agree to the assignment, just for the pennies that would come along by the time I finished the article and handed in the photographs.
"Miss Ansell, is that you?" inquires somebody from behind me, so I swivel around in the hard bus stop chair to face the person who has been calling my attention.
The woman is bedecked with pearls and jewels. She dons long, lustrous hair and a thick fur coat despite the warm weather. I am guessing she is one of the affluent folks in the town who makes a run for her money, no matter what.
"Are you Mrs. Bell Faradaye?" I ask, pushing up my Gucci imitation sunglasses on top of my head further. It is obvious that Mrs. Faradaye is honored and distinguished by the people in town. Heads turn everywhere she walks. Townsfolk greet her as she makes her way towards me. The snooty little brat basks under the spotlight. She gives them a cold nod and hurries along.
"Yes, I am. Now dear, come with me. Please make haste, for we haven't got all day. Luncheon will be served in a few minutes. We are supposed to arrive at the Fortunata Hotel right now," says Mrs. Faradaye impatiently, tapping her foot on the pavement.
I agree, but not before raising my camera to take a photograph of the woman in front of me. I wish for people to take a glimpse of Portsville's wealthy and well-off residents. It is poised to make the perfect shot when Mrs. Faradaye knocks it out of my hands. My Nikon D3100 flies in the air and lands on the ground with a sickening crack. Just the sound makes me want to claw the eyes of this woman out. "What the hell?" I exclaim, glaring at her.
"No cameras for me. You might get a shot of my bad side instead of my good one," Mrs. Faradaye replies haughtily and raises her Gucci handbag a bit higher. Who does this woman think she is?
I crouch down to examine my camera for any damages. Aside from a few deeps scratches, it was unscathed. Luckily, the lens faced the sky when it fell and is unharmed. But how dare this woman do such thing? I pick up my camera and tuck it inside one of my bags, making sure it was safe and wrapped with cloth on all sides. I decide that it would be better to miss a few photo ops than have an angry, violent woman destroy my prized possession.
"Excuse me, but you can't simply knock out someone's things out of their hands. It's rude. I thought you would know better," I shoot back at her, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Whatever, are you coming or not?" she says, rolling her eyes. Phone in hand, she dials a number and calls her chauffeur. She frowns because he seems to have not answered. Mrs. Faradaye curses and hurls her iPhone 6 at me with a vulgar force. I duck and the cell phone smashes into smithereens as it encounters a brick wall. "It is time for an upgrade anyway." she mutters.
"I'm not going anywhere with you. I am sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Faradaye, but you are such a spoiled brat! You can't get everything you want. You've got to work hard for it. And once you've picked the fruits of your labor, you shan't act demeaning and disrespectful!" I burst out, shocked because of Mrs. Faradaye's actions.
"You don't know what you're talking about, child! Get out of here if you defy my orders. I do what I want to you, because I am the governess of this town and you are currently standing on my territory." Mrs. Faradaye narrows her makeup-caked eyes at me. Rage was evident in them.
I seethe with anger. "Who do you think you are? I'm not going with you. You can't make me," I speak, standing my ground firmly.
"Fine. Where will you stay tonight, and the nights to come? Who will feed you?" Mrs. Faradaye stomps her foot on the ground and groans in frustration.
I have to make this woman leave me alone. "I can do all that by myself. Now get the hell away from me!" I scream at her. The pigeons appear to fly and disperse as I say these words and lunge at Mrs. Faradaye. Steam shoots out of her nose and ears. She turns the color of a cherry tomato and storms away.
I sigh and nod in satisfaction. Finally, some peace and quiet. I cradle my camera in my arms and set off into the real world.
➵ ➵ ➵
I peer through my lens, focusing on a pitiful image of a formerly luxurious estate, now beat-up and beyond restoration. I press a button on my camera and manage to take a sad-looking shot. Perfect. The viewers of my photograph collection will find it so miserable that it will melt their hearts coerce them into donating money to the newspaper and to the wrecked town.
I am in an empty clearing, more like a park than an abandoned grassy plain. Swing sets, monkey bars, and see-saws are scattered all over the place. The air surrounding the area is chilly. I wrap my thin windbreaker around me a little tighter and zip it up until my chin. I decide to stop for a second and take a short break, perhaps to just sit back, relax, and drink in the muted beauty of the town. This isn't so bad after all. And then I notice it.
Behind the park, a bunch of birch trees, and more rubble and run-down homes that I could imagine, stands a tall steeple with a long, graceful spire, seemingly unaffected by the natural disaster that occurred weeks before. The spire belongs to a church. It is nothing special, but I walk over to it anyway.
The church is ancient; its wooden roof is crumbling to dust. One could see the rusted metal structure peeking beneath the weather-worn roof. The steeple still stands strong. It is the only thing in the church, in this town, and amongst the people which is not tarnished and tainted.
I manage to get a picture of the miserable church before a squirrel attacks me. Maybe one of the paper's graphic designers could add a black and white filter to it once I return home. I wonder what to do next. Maybe I should head inside the church to pay respect for a while. After all, it has given me a great great photograph.
I hesitantly walk inside the drooping building. Dried leaves and dirt dissolve under my boots. I halt for a moment under the huge crucifix hanging on top of the tiny doorway, thinking it was going to fall on my head and knock me unconscious.
I make the sign of the cross as soon as I enter and kneel down to pray. I thank God for the wonderful chance to be able to take amazing photos. The only thing I desire for more than anything at present is for more excitement. Portsville is a dull town. It sure needs some improvement.
Sneaking a peek at my cell phone, I realize with a shock that it is indeed five-thirty in the afternoon. I have been wandering around the town for more than three hours. I have not even eaten lunch yet, hence the growling of my stomach. I carry no money, for all my needs are supposed to be covered by Mrs. Faradaye. Well, I simply despise her, so now, what am I supposed to do.
I am in the middle of nearly pulling out my hair in frustration when a shadow coming from behind the shocks death out of me. "Shit!" I scream, and quickly put a hand to my mouth when I realize that I have cursed without any important reason. In a church, too.
He is silent, never moving. He stares at me. I stare back. I am the first to speak.
"What are you doing here?" utters my dumb, stupid big mouth.
"Shouldn't I be the one to ask you that?" he says. His voice is steady, smooth, calm. I like it.
"I was here first," I remind him, gesturing at the termite-eaten pew.
"I don't care. I live here. By the looks of it, you're a tourist." the boy takes in my luggage, camera, and startled expression.
I grumble in reply, "This tourist has a name. Are all locals this rude? I've met one, and she's pretty bitchy."
"Oh, really? So, you're a tourist. I knew it. Anyway, who did you meet?" he asks with a laid-back smirk.
"Mrs. Bell Faradaye. I absolutely hate her. She snatched my camera and almost smashed it into pieces," I explain. The boy gazes at my prized possession.
His features twist into a scowl. "I dislike her too. She stole my money from my bank account. What did you do to piss her off?" he questions.
"Don't you mean your family's money? You don't seem any older than seventeen," I interrupt.
"Don't talk about it," he says, frowning slightly.
"I'm sorry. I won't press any further. So, I tried to take a picture of her, and she told me that I might get her 'bad side'. She was my ticket to this place. Now I don't have money and a place to stay," I tell him.
"Sure. Why did you wish to take her photo anyway? She's hella ugly!" he snorts.
I am suddenly ashamed of this conversation. My cheeks flush, and he notices. He grins and teases me.
"Whatever," I mutter under my breath.
"You don't have a place to stay, am I right? I'll take you in, without any payment. On two conditions," speaks the boy.
"What?" I wonder.
"The first condition is to tell me why you wanted to take her photo. Don't get me wrong, I don't give a shit about any of that photo crap. And the second is to help me get revenge on her," he says.
It all sounds convincing, until he says 'photo crap'. I seethe with anger.
"What photo crap? Every picture contains a thousand words," I splutter.
"I've heard that before, lady. Now are you accepting my invitation or not?" he says with a smug smirk. He begins to walk out of the church.
"This isn't over yet," I mutter, hauling my bags over my shoulder and following in his footsteps.
➵ ➵ ➵
Hello, my dear readers! This book was originally published on Wattpad, but then I decided to move it somewhere else, seeing that I haven't continued it for a long time. I hope that Perspective can eventually capture your interest, so I can get motivated to write more.
A bit of self promotion: Please read the book I spend most of my time on, Fanzoned and Friendzoned. It's on Wattpad and it's more messy and 'amateur hour' than this novel, but it's better off and completed. Another book of mine on Wattpad is Phony-Shop, which is a dialogue story. Please check that out as well.
So please, support, comment, and follow! Thank you so much for reading, and I will see you again whenever I can to publish another update.