image of a rasta man with long locks standing under a darkening sky. Ihe is wearing an orange shirt and brown jacket. Image attributed to the 4toconvert.

My Last Photograph

I stare into the unflinching eye of the camera. The feet of the day stick out of the mouth of the night. It has swallowed the rest of her. Soon, it will be apocalyptically dark.

I am shivering out in the open field and the cold is coiling itself around my limbs; I can feel it crashing my rib cage. I smile for the camera.

If these are my last moments, I must look good. They must remember me at my best. If I should die tonight, at least my epitaph should read, He Died Doing What He Loved Best.

The flash blinks. A white light blinds me. And all I see is red. The smell of blood floods my nostrils.

Is this my last photograph? I think.

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