I couldn't help being nervous. My fingers were trembling slightly as I finished assembling the tripod, and I struggled to control them. I'm a professional, I told myself over and over again. Still, the shake in my hands was perceptible as I mounted the camera, and my heart was thumping in my chest. I'd done this hundreds of times before; surely there was nothing to worry about.

Right, my mind answered back. Who was I trying to kid?

I dimmed the lights, shrouding the room in deep shadow, and switched on an overhead spotlight. It was muted to just the right degree, and the warm grey backdrop looked almost like mist. A smaller umbrella light stood in front and to the right of my gear, casting a soft shadow from the plain white stool in the middle of the floor. Perfect. I was ready. I pulled over a collapsible chair and sat down, trying to let my eye tell my brain where this shoot was going to go. It was crucial that I achieved perfection. My nerves began to subside, little by little, as I worked over details in my mind, framing shots and compositions with my mind's eye.

I was taking a sip from a bottle of Perrier when a female voice shattered my calm, and I almost spat the water onto the studio floor.

"Are you ready for me yet, Steve?" It was instantly recognisable, that voice, and it set my nerves on edge again. Here we go, I thought. No backing out now. I took a deep breath.

"All set," I said, taking another sip of water to ease the sudden dryness in my mouth. I got up and stood at the edge of the pool of light, hands clasped behind my back. It was very warm in the studio, and I felt sweat begin to break out on my forehead as I waited, not sure what expression I should have on my face. I was suddenly certain a stupid grin was lurking there. I tried again to focus my thoughts. I've been doing this for fifteen years; and here I was acting like a first year assistant.

The dressing room door swung open, and she stepped out of the darkness into the light. My breath caught in my throat as I saw her. She was smiling, lips glossy and vamped with red lipstick; wild and dangerous against the porcelain pallor of her skin. Her eyes sparkled under dark make-up. Her long hair was loose and tousled, it shone under the light and spilled like caramel over her shoulders and neck. She wore a midnight blue silk gown that hugged her body, sliding on her skin like oil as she moved over to the centre of the room.

She was beautiful. No, more than that, she was stunning, she was perfection.

"How do you want me?" she said. Her expression was mischievous, as if she knew the effect she was having on me. She probably did - she seemed alive with energy, confident and strong. That smile; what was she thinking? The air seemed to thicken around me.

"Just let your thoughts go. Forget about me; I'm part of the furniture. Whatever you want to be today, just be it."

Not much by way of instruction, but it was all I could manage. My voice sounded alien to me. She simply nodded, then sat on the stool and stretched her long legs out. With deliberate slowness, she shrugged out of the gown. It slid off her shoulders, down her body, and fell on the floor. Naked, smiling, she lowered her head looked into my eyes.

"Aren't you taking that off?" She said.

My mind was a confused blank for a moment. Then I remembered the lens cap. I felt heat rising to my cheeks, but I grinned, and lifted the camera from the tripod.

I hardly had to try, in the end. She was a natural, and bathed under the soft lights she became a goddess. My nervousness vanished as I concentrated on the job - I felt like I was cheating, it was so easy. Shadows rippled over her skin like smoke as she changed positions; her muscles taught and defined by electric light, her hair streaming from her. Subtle movements, flawless skin, elegant and graceful - every photograph was perfect. No-one had ever shot her like this before, and she was amazing.

Later, I was sitting at my computer when I felt her hand on my shoulder. She had showered, and was dressed in plain jeans and a white T-shirt.

"How did they turn out?" She asked.

"Lacey, they're stunning. You're beautiful," I said. She leaned over and kissed the back of my neck. I slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto my lap. The images finished burning, and the disk slid out. I handed it to her.

"I've always wanted to model for you, Steve. I'm naturally shy, I guess."

But her eyes were still dancing. Though we've been married for years, I love it when she looks at me like that. On the computer screen I dragged the photographs into the wastebasket. A second later, they were gone. The DVD was all the remained of the shoot.

"Just make sure the kids never get hold of that disk," I said.

After weeks without inspiration, there it was, in the sycamore outside my bedroom window. Perfectly cropped by curtains and window frame, the magpie studied me through the glass as I stood transfixed by inspiration. Resplendent in confident black and white, the elegant bird fixed an amber eye on my nakedness and enunciated a humiliating chortle.

Dropping my towel, I retrieved my digital SLR from its bag, grateful for lenses and filters neatly to hand. I took aim. My subject obligingly turned this way and that, performing an intricate impromptu on his perch. I snapped frame after frame of the bird’s fluid movements. The late afternoon sun provided studio-perfect lighting, and the intervening pane went undetected by the Pentax’s glassy eye.

After an intricate series of poses, the magpie stopped still, assessed me with its bright eye and, having assured itself that I had the shots I needed, took flight. My last exposure caught its tail and feet as it exited the frame.

***

The gallery’s competition closed days later, and until the magpie appeared, the “Black And White” theme had failed to inspire. Now I envisioned my entry: a grid of enlarged prints, each showing a separate frame of the magpie’s dance. I chose twelve expressive shots, rearranging them like twigs in a nest until I was happy.

I’d never been completely at home in monochrome, preferring the tones and hues of full colour. Black and white leaves you nowhere to hide. Like the bird, the sharp contrasts spoke of a boldness I wished I had. This series lead to the final frame: the bird flies away, leaving shades of grey behind its tail feathers. There was my story.

I called it Confidence Departs.

***

I delivered the 12 enlarged canvases to the gallery for hanging and judging. Thankfully the day was as sunny as I felt, because there was no room inside to lay out the frames. I arranged the grid on the cobbled courtyard. After my careful sequencing, I didn’t trust the gallery staff to hang them correctly. I would have preferred to supervise. But I had other plans.

Wedding photographs are always hit and miss. You shoot the bride and groom, hoping that one of the hundreds of frames captures the essence of a happy couple you barely know. It’s work. But this one was a favour for a friend from art school. Actually, I hoped she’d be more than just a friend. When she’d offered me the job, I forgot to clarify the fee.

The one perk of wedding photography is that, for a day, you can be at the heart of the party, pairing up couples and flirting from behind the safety of the lens. I got some great shots of Karen. I waited for her date to appear, but she appeared alone. In a burgundy gown which caught the light in alarming ways, she was stunning. I stole a few shots just for me.

Having captured the usual rituals – confetti, cake-cutting, bouquet toss – I was loading bags and tripods into my car.

“Slow down, Mr Photographer! You’re not leaving without payment, surely?” Karen held an envelope aloft. “Don’t worry, the Rogens are rolling in it. I didn’t expect you to do it just for me.”

“I would have – for you.” I blurted. Frankly, I would have walked on broken glass.

“Thanks, Josh – that’s so sweet.”

Even in the poor light of the car park, I thought her cheeks darkened. Weddings: the perfect opportunity to push your romantic luck.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

She slipped into the passenger seat of the Lancia without protest.

***

The glass double doors of the gallery projected luminescent squares across the cobblestones as we pulled up; my magpie dozen hung – correctly – on the opposite wall. We laughed as we ran across the stones, Karen in perilous heels and I heady with spontaneity. I took her hand, and I could tell she didn’t mind at all.

“There it is. The magpie. It’s mine.”

She stood, face pressed against the glass, observing my captured bird through the door. Then she turned to look at me, wide-eyed.

“You did that?”

“The bird did it. I just took the pictures.”

“That’s not true, Josh. You’re amazing.”

I wished I could have captured this moment on film, and all the feelings with it. I realized when she stood on tiptoes to kiss me that I held both her hands in mine.

“Just one question – does the gallery know it’s exhibiting bird poo?”

I looked at her quizzically, still disoriented by the flashbulbs exploding in my head. She recognised my confusion, gesturing towards the giant prints. Four of the canvases were dashed with the unmistakable monochrome spatter of droppings.

Damn. Confidence Departs, indeed.

“Signed by the artist?” Karen teased, her hot breath in my ear, and suddenly it didn’t matter.

***

I swear it was the same bird, although they all look similar, especially by moonlight. The same bright eye, peering into the room as I fumbled for the bedside lamp. Karen was almost on top of me as we laughed our way onto the bed, but I excused myself briefly to draw the curtains on the magpie and the world.

“Thanks for nothing, buddy,” I murmured through the glass, thinking ruefully of the canvases. In negative, Karen’s reflection pulled a barrette from her hair.

“And… you know… thanks.”

I thought it all made sense at the time. I wasn't terribly concerned: with all the affairs and dares and other nasty games we would play with each other, it merely seemed a natural progression in our idle diversions.

"He's hired a private investigator," I told my sister, Kitty over afternoon tea. She gasped, although I'm sure she wasn't surprised. "Oh yes," I continued, "it's true. I was leaving a meeting with the planning office two days ago when I saw someone taking photos of me from inside a car. Jeffrey must be awfully determined this time."

"Have you done anything about it?" Kitty asked. We sat in the relative privacy in the corner of the dining room, looking over the majestic beauty of the bay whilst sharing little sandwiches and cakes from sliver platters: even here, I was sure we were watched.

"Of course I have. I went out on the town and had raunchy, not-so-discreet relations with a rather stunning twenty-year-old Ukrainian I found at the club." My sister gave me one of those looks. "Don't worry, the photographer was there the whole time."

"But Addie, aren't you afraid? What if Jeffrey is planning on divorcing you?" She dropped her voice, "or worse?"

"Of course he isn't. He'd have no one to play with if he did that. No, I think it's far simpler than that: he's trying to make me feel paranoid, guilty, trying to play on my mind. Well, he won't succeed . . ."

"You know, Addie, I can never work out why you married that man," she said, staring me down over her cup of tea.

"You sound just like Mother when you say that."

We left shortly after and with a glow of satisfaction I noticed the glossy black eye of a zoom lens peering through the window of a parked car. For the first time, I saw the photographer himself. He looked familiar. Shaven bald with a pale, narrow face, his features were peculiarly sharp and his stare penetrating. It was a face you couldn't forget, and I wondered from whose earlier days Jeffrey had found him: his or mine.

And it was flattering, for a while. Every meeting, every lunch with a client, every tryst he was watching me like my own personal paparazzo. I expected the photos to be mailed to me with some sort of demand or for Jeffrey to come home one night and slam the folio down on the dinner table. But the days turned into weeks and still the pale, piercing face with the camera followed me everywhere.

I thought I was stronger than Jeffrey's little mind games but his persistence was worrying me: it wasn't until I flew out to the Gold Coast for a conference that I began to doubt if Jeffrey was behind it at all.

Wanting some peace and some privacy, I went straight to my hotel suite from the airport. I hadn't seen the photographer in the crowd at the terminal and it seemed I was finally free. All the same, I locked the door and pulled the blinds, replacing the warm sun with the dim glow of the lamps. Undressing in the bedroom, I took my toiletries into the bathroom and locking the ensuite door behind me, I stepped into the shower.

The little bathroom soon steamed up, but despite the hot water I was overcome by an icy wave of dread: through the drips on the shower glass I could see a dark figure on the other side. A shutter motor clicked and whirred over the sound of water and I screamed and slipped, my legs sliding from underneath me as I crashed down onto the tiles . . .

I came to and stepped out of the shower. I wrapped myself in the bathrobe, feeling the tender bump on my head and thinking to myself that all the stress was taking its toll. No one could have entered my suite and the bathroom, I reassured myself, not through two locked doors.

I cried, I begged, I tried to back away, but he grabbed my wrist with a grip as hard and cold as ice. "Come now, Addison. It's time . . . "

Gia sat on the corner of her bed, lost in a sea of confusion. It had been nearly three weeks since the accident that claimed her twin sister. "She's holding up well," she had overheard her mother say into the phone just a few hours before.

"Holding up well," Gia thought to herself. The words sat in her stomach like hardened concrete.

She unwound her legs from the position they had been in for nearly an hour, and stood gingerly at her bedside. The room swam with hundreds of tiny pin-points of light as she glanced over at Veronica's now empty side of the room. Gone at twenty-three. It just didn't seem possible. Gia still felt her presence, fully expecting Veronica to come bounding through the door at any minute. She felt her hands tighten into fists. Three weeks would soon melt into a lifetime, and she would still be left with nothing of Veronica but memories and a few scrapbooks they had made together.

"The scrapbooks," Gia whispered. In a fog, she glided across the room to Veronica's desk. Sitting there amongst CD cases and receipts was a neat stack of photographs, all labeled with sticky notes as to their origin. They had just started organizing pictures to go into their twentieth album. They had made one every year since they were three; filled with memories of a time when life was more simple. Gia slowly lifted the top photograph from the stack. It was a picture of her and Veronica at the family beach house. They were smiling.

Gia recoiled and dropped the picture as if she had grabbed a hot poker. No, this wasn't real. Ronnie wasn't dead. Bad dream, she thought. Bad dream. She felt the all-too familiar sting of tears come to her eyes. She shut them in a futile effort to stop the inevitable. Ronnie wasn't dead. Ronnie wasn't dead. She repeated her mantra over and over in her head as the first trickle of warmth dripped down her cheek. Get a grip, Gia. Ronnie is gone, and you can't do anything to bring her back.

Anger surged through her as her hand involuntarily swung out and connected with the pile of pictures. They scattered across the room. Gia kept lashing out, taking down anything without arm's reach. Candles, figurines, books -- nothing was left untouched. Veronica's desk was transformed into a whirlwind of flying flesh and tears.

Gia collapsed to the floor, her chest heaving with grief and frustration. She looked to her right, and saw the unfinished scrapbook laying open. Veronica's curved script annotated each picture, but there were two blank pages left. They had planned to finish those pages once Veronica got home from her vacation.

"I have to finish them," Gia whispered. But how could she finish it without Ronnie? Each scrapbook told the story of one year of their existence. With Veronica's life snuffed out, it would be impossible to complete.

It had to be done. Ronnie would have wanted it like this.

Gia stood in one fluid movement, and walked to Veronica's closet. She carefully opened the door and was met with a mountain of her dead sister's clothes. Her breath came in short, sporadic gasps as she reached for Ronnie's best dress. Trying not to look at it, she slowly put it on. She and Veronica had been identical twins, so the dress was a perfect fit.

Gia closed her eyes in silent prayer as she reached for her camera. The cold, unfeeling plastic felt like a brick in her hand. She set the camera up on her tripod, and aimed it at the pillows on Veronica's bed. After setting the timer, she padded softly across the floor, and sat down with the camera's red light blinking in tandem with her heartbeat. She took her hair down, letting it cascade over her shoulders like Ronnie used to. The flash was quick and blinding, leaving her completely disoriented. As she composed herself, she crept back to the camera, almost as if she was expecting it to bite her.

"Review," she said as she pressed the button. The camera came to life, flashing a picture that made Gia's blood run cold. It was Veronica. From top to bottom, it was Veronica. A single tear splashed on the camera's viewfinder as Gia marveled at the photograph. Veronica wasn't dead. She was right there, sitting on her bed, cracking her infamous lop-sided grin.

Thoughtlessly, Gia rested her hand on the "Erase" button. "This isn't right," she thought to herself. The fabric of Veronica's dress fluttered against her calf. "Just isn't right." She quickly dismissed the thought and quickly moved her gaze to the "Print" button. She pressed it slowly, relishing the moment. The hum of the printer jolted Gia back into reality. The glossy 4x6 print slowly emerged from the machine, revealing line by line the expressive face that Gia had loved for twenty-three years. It was Veronica.

She lifted the scrapbook from the floor, and gently placed the picture in an empty slot. She would finish it after all.

Gallimoor Derry existed in squalor, decrepitude and depression. His apartment was small and ill-kept; the carpet and wallpaper were stained and worn, the furniture was in need of repair, trash and dirty clothing were strewn about...his surroundings mirrored his own appearance and emotional state.

Though his environment was embarrassingly shabby, Gallimoor was oblivious of all but a few things; the chair he now sat in, a small box on his lap and, about eight feet away, staring at him with its cold, glass eye, his digital camera supported by a tripod.

He wasn't always an empty husk of a man, of course; his current condition developed over the previous year or so, when he purchased his first digital SLR camera. At 22 years old, Gallimoor decided he'd like to be a photographer for a newspaper; even if he didn't make it, he'd still get to experience his main passion in life.

At first he took pictures of whatever he could, whenever he could, hundreds and hundreds of pictures, all of which wound up archived on CD's. His camera performed flawlessly, but the first inkling that something was wrong with it occurred a month or two later. There was a news report one day of a murder, but the location of the crime scene looked familiar. Gallimoor looked back through his photos until he found the relevant group and pulled up one particular image; it was the exact location of the crime, but his shot was from weeks before.

However, he now noticed something he hadn't before; the victim was indeed in his photo, off to the side and partially obscured, but was prone on the sidewalk, with the same gunshot wounds to the head and arm. When he took the picture, he didn't recall anybody even laying down on the ground resting, much less sprawled in a pool of blood. Somebody surely would have noticed.

Was the picture always like this? Did he just overlook it before, never mind how it happened in the first place. At the time he didn't know what to do, who to tell (or who would believe him), so he kept quiet, but he checked the camera LCD screen more often.

Over the next few months the bizarre nature of his camera manifested itself, but in slightly more palpable ways. Once, a photo of ducks in a pond showed one of them, alive at the time of the photo, dead and eaten by some predator. He went back to the nearby location shown in the image every day, until eventually, weeks later, he found the duck in its lifeless state, partially eaten.

His camera would occasionally predict the future demise of other animals, but one day, while photographing a stretch of highway, the LCD of his camera showed a horrific crash; he could make out at least one body, broken and torn, thrown clear.

He knew he had to warn someone. With no small amount of trepidation he went to the police who, predictably, didn't believe him, but also thought he had a sick sense of humor. Nevertheless, they took a report.

Two months later, those same police came knocking at his door, demanding to know what part he played in the day old wreck. Over the next several months Gallimoor was the prime suspect but was eventually cleared due to lack of evidence.

His health, mental as well as physical, had started to deteriorate. He stopped taking pictures of live things, but an elementary school showed up in the preview screen as a burned-out husk. That was when he started his withdrawal from society. He took fewer and fewer pictures, mostly random objects, certainly no more living things or habitations; he steadfastly refused to take photos of his family or friends. At least, the friends he had left.

Finally, a month ago, Gallimoor stopped communicating with the outside world. He didn't answer the door or phone (not that people tried to contact him very often), he went out only at night, and then just to buy junk food, he rarely bathed, he wore the same clothes for days at a time...he had become a shadow of his former self.

Now, an hour ago, he had taken a picture of himself using the remote shutter release, since dropped and forgotten on the floor. Staring at the lens, he came to a decision. He elected to not look at the image preview; he knew what it would show. Instead, Gallimoor opened the box on his lap, revealing a silver, short-barreled revolver...

It was my first time, that time with Marc, and I should have known better.

He'd ushered me in the door with that wide smile, all dimples and dancing eyes, and was at pains to make me completely comfortable. I'd enjoyed the anticipation many times over in my fantasies, and the experience itself was even more delicious than I'd imagined. The way he viewed me, I felt like chocolate on a hot day. It was impossible not to become pliable, and I wanted to please him.

The elegant evening gown clung to my body, and I used its satin to form vibrant shapes against the blank canvas of the couch. Marc's delighted murmurs spurred me on. His approval was like warm light filling me.

"That's it, perfect. Oh yeah, I wish all the girls moved like you do. Hold it, slow down, ahhhhhh, yes, that's so nice."

It was as if I knew what to do before he wanted it, and his surprise and enjoyment were palpable. We were like one being. I know it's dangerous to get caught up in these things, but despite myself I began to picture a future with Marc. It seemed almost necessary that two people as compatible as we were should form a life together. Who knows when such a natural connection might be found? The fantasies drove me to apply myself to his pleasure, and I knew he felt something too.

It was over before I knew it, and I lay there on the couch, exhausted.

"That was fantastic," said Marc.

I suspected it was best not to let him know just how much I'd enjoyed it. I put my clothes back on in the bathroom.

The wrinkled fifty he gave me as I left made me feel grubby.

***

I dropped around to Marc's again the following day. I'd told myself I'd be able to wait to see how it turned out, but I couldn't help myself. Impatience drove right through me like a hot skewer.

The front door was open, so I entered the hall. I stopped at the hallstand mirror to check my reflection, and admired a vase of roses below it. Their deep rich red-black reminded me of the satin gown I'd worn, and the memory of the previous day bubbled up afresh.

Marc's voice was muffled by the closed door. I told myself it was more consideration than eavesdropping as I moved to the door and strained to make out the words. Marc's voice, saying "That's it, perfect. Oh yeah, I wish all the girls moved like you do. Hold it, slow down, ahhhhhh, yes, that's so nice."

The punctuating giggles were clearly not Marc's, and they hastened the rise of a crawling sensation in my stomach. Marc was using the same words he had said to me - with another girl! Either they shared the same connection, or he said that to all the girls. I didn't know which was worse….

To have thought we shared something special and unique! Oh, I felt such an idiot. And the flowers? They had not been there yesterday, which means he'd bought them today – for her! Or - worse - she'd brought them for him! Standing there in the hall, ready to melt into the carpet runner in my embarrassment, I tried to avoid eye contact with my reflection as a prickling rose up my cheeks. I picked up the vase and smashed it onto the floor.

By the time Marc had time to discover the flowers scattered among shards of china, I was long gone.

***

On my doorstep this morning, the bulky envelope was stamped in the top right corner with the logo of Marc Jacobs Photography. I tore away the wrapping. Inside was a bundle of glossy photographs - all of me in the satin dress on the couch. Accompanying the proofs was a note, which read:

Emily, These turned out great! I really enjoyed our photo shoot. Do you fancy dinner this Friday? Marc

P.S. Sorry about the flowers - the vase fell over.

Next to the parcel was a slightly crumpled-looking bunch of deep red roses.

I felt a sharp stab of delight, and then shame, and embarrassment, and then I didn't know what to think. I sat down on the doorstep, leafing through the glossies. Marc was a fantastic photographer, and for a first modeling gig, I didn't think I'd done too badly at all.

And Friday night dinner with Marc - that would be nice. More than nice. If he could see the funny side when I presented and explained a replacement vase, I'd know for sure that we shared something special.

No, I'd not done too badly at all - for a first time.

“Steve, Datu is coming back, but there’s nobody else with him,” I reported. The Filipino crewman had taken the aluminum skiff, called a panga in this ocean, around the point from the yacht’s anchorage to search for the missing scuba diver.

“Captain, I spotted this rolling in the surf,” Datu said, handing Steve some camera equipment. Datu revved the outboard and rooster-tailed back to resume the search.

“It’s full of water,” Steve observed glumly. “Here, Ginny, what’s this all about?”

I brought the gear to the rinse tank to empty the seawater from the housing. “The camera is ruined, of course,” I replied. I know from my own experience how easy it is to flood underwater cameras. Just a hair caught in the o-ring causes the seal to fail. A moment’s inattention while closing the camera into the housing would ruin thousands of dollars of camera equipment and spoil an expensive dive vacation. “But it’s Brett’s gear. He’s shooting the Nikon D3. See, it’s set up for wide angle. The strobes are probably OK.”

“He’s been gone too long,” Steve groaned. “Eight passengers, fifteen crew, and nobody can say for sure when he left the boat.” The yacht had been anchored all day, so the guests could dive as often as they liked, returning periodically to allow the crew to refill their air tanks. The guests ate, rested and changed camera batteries during the surface interval. “Well, you’re the photo pro. See what you can figure out. I’m going to radio that fishing boat again. Why don’t they answer? You’d think if they did pick up a diver, they would have brought him back here. They didn’t even visit to sell us fish.”

I turned the plastic housing over and saw a hairline crack. “That’s where it flooded. When would that have happened? If he’d dropped it on the deck, we’d know all about it by now.”

I brought Brett’s ruined camera to my cabin, where I extracted the media card, a seven-gigabyte CF unit. It didn’t look wet. I touched my tongue to the card’s surface: no salt. Maybe it’s readable. I inserted the card into the media reader cabled to my laptop computer.

The media reader blinked, and Adobe Bridge came up, revealing, one by one, the images Brett had recorded. The first image was of the camera table; the second image the inside of the rinse tank. Brett had tested the camera before sealing it into the housing, and again after sealing it. A careful photographer’s standard procedure, checking out that the equipment is properly connected before the dive. Next, he had recorded fifteen images of the pink and yellow soft coral abundant on the drop-off beyond the anchorage. The close-focus wide-angle scenics were unevenly lighted but improved as Brett adjusted the strobe angle to illuminate his subject in the foreground while exposing the sea surface above for ambient light. Clearly, he had entered the water with a properly sealed housing without a crack to admit seawater. “When were these taken?” I right-clicked the mouse to ask for file information about the last image. “Yesterday’s date? At 11:54 pm? I don’t think so. These aren’t shots from the night dive. They all show blue water and sunlight. Anyhow, the night dive was over by 8 pm.”

Did he forget to change the time setting in his camera when he came on the trip? He told me yesterday he’s from Los Angeles. I clicked up my laptop’s clock to check time zones. The time zone in Los Angeles is GMT minus 8 hours. Here in the Philippines, we are GMT plus 8 hours. I chased the arithmetic for a few minutes to pin down the local time the image was taken: 2:54 pm today.

I brought the image up in Photoshop in order to see more detail. Clicking the Zoom tool for Actual Pixels, I moved the Navigator frame to view different sections of the image. There. Above the soft coral in the foreground, I saw the silhouette of a small boat in the negative space of the water’s surface, floating above the reef scenic. It was not our panga.

Shouts from the dive deck brought me running. “Boss, we found him.” They heaved the diver’s inert body up on deck and began emergency resuscitation. The yacht carried an extensive medical kit, necessary in such a remote place, and one of the guests was a physician from Sydney. Twenty minutes later, Dr. Lambert pronounced Brett dead, cause of death indeterminate. “He drowned, yes, but why? Heart attack? Some other medical condition? Something wrong with his regulator? What sort of accident happened?”

“Steve, there’s something strange about Brett’s last photo,” I whispered. We moved to the wheelhouse. I explained the time it was taken and the unknown small boat in the image. “Was the fishing boat nearby then? Wasn’t that when we heard that boom?”

Steve thumbed the page of events that pertained to managing the yacht itself. “Yep. The noise was noted in the log. Illegal dynamite fishing? It could be. The concussion would injure a diver, if he were too close. Even if he wasn’t killed outright, he could be knocked unconscious and drown.”

“That would crack the camera housing too,” I agreed. “It’s not a dive accident. It’s murder.”

Frank carefully checked the batteries and memory card in his camera. This was going to be a once in a lifetime shot and he wasn't going to miss it because he hadn't gone over his equipment. The camera itself was strapped to his waist in a custom designed case that would protect the fragile lens but also keep the glass from fogging up at a crucial moment. The case also allowed him to work the camera with one hand with no risk of dropping the camera.

He checked with his safety crew and they gave him the thumbs up. Jim and the others would monitor his progress from the ground and let him know where his target was. Jim was also an expert climber and would be able to give advice on the best route to the nest.

Frank slapped his hands together and started up. He took a few practice shots while the climbing was still easy. The case worked perfectly. He climbed slowly but steadily up the sheer face of granite. He couldn't see any wings, but that was a good thing. He hoped to get close enough to the nest to be able to settle in and let the condors relax. Even after the astonishing recovery they had made in recent years they were still a rare and precious breed.

Frank came to the first of the really difficult parts of the climb. All the training that he had put in for this day paid off and he made the traverse with a minimum of trouble. The next stretch was a long climb up a crevice in the cliff. He took a drink from his bottle and tried to relax.

The crevice took a bit longer than he had planned but he was still in good shape when he reached the top. This was where things could get tricky. He was in sight of the nest for this stretch. Frank snapped some quick shots of the nest perched in the centre of a vast expanse of rock. He could barely see the tiny ledge that supported the nest. The nestlings were apparently sleeping. He couldn't see them anyway.

He worked his way up the cliff anxiously scanning the sky for the appearance of the huge wings that would mean the parent condors were back. Jim kept him up to date from below as well. He came to a section of cliff that was smooth and almost featureless. He had to move away from the nest and try to set some pitons to hold his weight while he moved across the rock. He found a good spot and set the piton. He was just swinging his hammer to lodge it securely when an adult condor flew within feet of him.

Frank dropped the hammer. He took a hand from the cliff face to grab his camera, but the shift in weight loosened the piton. He could either take pictures or hold on to the cliff. He took a moment to glance down. It was a long way down. He wasn't sure that the rope would hold if he slipped. He looked over to the nest and saw the young condors getting ready to fly.

Frank let go of the cliff and snatched up his camera.

I found the camera in the dungeon of an ancient castle I was touring for an upcoming shoot. Our group had just left the treasure vault. As the tour guide droned on, I snuck into the secret underground tunnel we had seen and waited for the place to close down for the night.

It looked odd sitting there on the floor amongst moldy chains, like a freshly made ice cream sundae in a box of spoiled beets. Naturally, I took it.

It was a weird looking instant film camera. The battery cover had text on it that read "Dead Batteries", and the film counter showed one picture left. I decided to use that picture on the dungeon so I put in my last two spare batteries. I pushed the red button and the flash filled the room brightly. The gears whirred, the front slot opened, and the camera vomited out one partly developed photograph. I pulled it out and stuffed it into my pocket. It was time to head out. I was feeling a little creepy – and guilty.

Driving off the castle grounds, a rabbit crossed the road. I swerved, sideswiping a tree. My passenger side headlight was caved in. I swore loudly at the beastie and drove home, my vehicle half blinded.

When I got back I looked at the picture. I was amazed at how three-dimensional the image was. I stood there dumbfounded, gazing at this wonder of chemical dyes and plastic sheeting. I reached out to touch the stone bed in the photo. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched sound in my head and I found myself standing back in the dungeon!

I looked at the photo – the image was gone, replaced by a milky white smear. I walked outside, not knowing what else to do. Oddly, my car was parked in the lot. I walked over to get in when I stopped and stared. This was my car. The license plate confirmed it. But the passenger side headlight was intact. Had I traveled back in time?!

I needed to get somewhere familiar. I started the car and began to drive away. Then I remembered – the rabbit! I slammed on the brakes. Three seconds later, he hopped past me and into the bushes where I saw him go the first time. Except now, my car was not damaged!

The next day there was one of those "ultra realistic" re-creations of the siege of the castle scheduled. I wondered just how "ultra realistic" it was going to be. I took my new toy with me to find out. At best, I would end up filthy rich; at worst I would have to watch the re-creation twice.

I emptied my gear bag of everything except the time camera. On the way to the castle, I bought a copy of today’s newspaper.

At the re-creation, I took photo after photo, stuffing them into my gear bag without looking to see if they were good shots or not. I must have taken over a hundred. I drove home barely paying attention to where I was going.

Once inside my room, I dumped the pictures out on the bed. All of them were milky white! All of them save the last one taken. So the film counter showed one photo left for a reason. No problem, it was a perfect shot. It showed the siege camp outside the castle walls not fifty yards from the underground tunnel that the attackers never knew about - the same tunnel that I did know about.

I grabbed the newspaper and my gear bag. I picked up the photo and reached out to touch it. There was the high-pitched sound, and I was taken to the siege camp. I spun around to look at the castle. Instead of a moss covered husk of half decayed stone, there was a fortress of new looking granite! I had been transported over 900 years in the past!

I ducked into a tent, "found" some clothes and dressed to look the part. I skulked around until I found the underground tunnel. Hiding myself in the brush, I stole my way into the castle. Once in, I turned left, and saw the treasure vault. There was a guard standing watch at the entrance. I ran up to him and snapped his picture. The flash blinded him, and he dropped his axe. I grabbed it and knocked him unconscious.

I entered the vault. There was enough gold and jewelry to make any pirate sick with envy. I folded the camera up, tucked it into my shirt and loaded up my gear bag. As I was about to set up my escape photo, the door burst open. There were five guards. Having no hope for escape, I immediately surrendered. After all, with a time machine, one can afford to make mistakes! I’d just come back again, this time knowing about the additional guards.

They tossed me into the dungeon. It was a familiar place. Laughing to myself, I pulled out the camera and my 2009 newspaper. I’d just take a quick photo of the paper on the bed, and then be home!

I placed the newspaper down and stepped back. I pushed the red button and...nothing. Frantically, I pushed again and again but to no avail. Flipping the camera over, I looked at the battery cover.

It read "Dead Batteries".

As much as it pained me to admit it, I knew I was feeling incredibly burned out in my 20 year profession. However, I hadn’t realized the extent to which my burn out had become.

In the beginning I loved my work. I looked forward everyday to the events that were to occur and the creativity that those events would and could inspire. All of the people that I encountered were diversely unusual, beautiful and sometimes delightfully weird. I loved every minute of it.

My life seemed guided by a message found in a Chinese fortune cookie received as a teenager. It was a proverb of sorts that said something along the line that if one enjoyed what he/she did for a living he/she would never have to work again. I embraced that proverb. It was easy for me to figure out what my niche in life should be. I truly believed that I was never going to have to work again.

Cameras were my beloved and precious tools since I was a kid. They later became my lifeline, my soul mates. They enabled me to capture the reality of all uniqueness, beauty and awesomeness within a world that God created especially for us.

My gift of creativity in finding just the right composition at just the right time proved to be lucrative as well as personally uplifting. Through my lens, I was able to summarize many distinguishing moments in Americans’ lives that often slipped so quickly by that they went without notice, until I freeze framed it into snapshots for them. People across the USA loved receiving it, as much as I loved providing it.

Perhaps it was my preoccupation with my work that allowed a rebellious worm to infiltrate my world without me noticing. Or, perhaps it was my Pollyanna-type attitude that caused me not to notice the strange ugliness creeping into my line of work and life. Either way, unpleasantness and downright meanness began to rear its ugly head. When the severity of the situation finally became a realization to me, it was a complete slap in the face.

Despair was all that I could feel when I opened my eyes and looked out over the world I’d been blessed by and believed in for all of my life. The American people had become angry, rude, greedy, and seeking some sort of warped vengeance for inconsequential issues. Accusations of infringement rights became rampant. Accusations of inappropriate photography intents were rampant as well. The list of complaints and lawsuits threatened by Americans became non-stop. The ever increasing bureaucracy, rules and regulations caused me to start walking on eggshells on a daily basis.

I found myself questioning my own motives and feeling a tinge of fear with every opening and closing of the shudder.

My fortune cookie theory was falling apart. The craft that I had treasured most all of my life had slowly become something that I hated and passionately detested.

Before I knew it I even hated my own people, the American people. I hated the art of photography. I hated, hated, hated.

Looking through a scope, getting the subject centered just so, questioning my own motives and feeling that tinge of fear... then shoot. It was the same principle as photography only with a much more satisfying effect for my cause.

I hate the prison psychologist for making me write this essay about my thoughts.