Short story.

1. Laciniate
by
Kenneth Rathburn
Fourth of July aromas permeated the afternoon air--grilled and barbecued hamburgers
and the like. Terry was aroused into a state of momentary bliss, accompanied by a newfound
stomach growl. The downtown was crowded with family and friends. Terry could barely
imagine this same scene in the confines of say, New York City. The thought made him thankful
for the bit of space he could find.
Terry caressed the camera tied to a strap adorning his neck. Although it looked like an
embarrassing name tag, it felt like a leash pulling his head downward. It was just one reason he
couldn’t be troubled to buy a pet, much less a dog. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of neglect
when leaving his Nikon to dangle. No one would attempt to steal or damage it, but that didn’t
mean inadvertent harm couldn’t come. If nothing else, his hands served as a personal, mental
cushion.
Nikon bleeped to life, exerting its lenses to scour the streets, hungry for moment to seize
and display. It enjoyed capturing the moments Terry saw, which were always of people. Still,
Nikon thought, would an occasional shot of just the sky or the trees be so much? The thought
was interrupted when Terry spotted two twenty-somethings running into each other, spinning
together like a wobbling top. Instinct dictated response through the shutter button. The boy
had a curly black bush for hair, which complemented his blue shirt and jeans; the girl wore a
white dress splashed with black and red dots. Nikon liked how her lightly shaded hair didn’t
curve until the last inch or so at the ends. They were one hell of a pairing.
Terry chuckled lightly through his nose. It was a touching moment. Simple, but

2. touching. He was certain that his picture came out poorly, but he didn’t care. There’d be more
opportunities before afternoon turned into evening.
---
By the time Terry reached his house, he felt he had acquired more mosquito bites than
photographs. Ripe and panting with sweat, he unlocked the front door. “You’re lucky you’re
inanimate,” he said to Nikon. Nikon regarded the comment as judgmental.
Technically, July 4th ended an hour and a half ago, but for Terry and his point-and-
shoot, it was still going. Terry connected Nikon to his MacBook. The camera and computer
weren’t fond of working together, but they made do. Terry made a print of every picture he took
each day. He didn’t mind the blurry or otherwise lackluster shots. Owning a physical copy of
each moment made him feel settled, like he secured a small piece of history. It might not matter
to anyone else, but he never concerned himself much with the public.
When Terry uploaded his most recent photographs, the count read 126. An average
number, given the holiday. The website allowed him to print at any drugstore of his choice, and
since this was a daily thing, he picked a different location from day to day. For a while, Terry
wondered if that meant he was paranoid, but it became so routine that the possibility was soon
abandoned. What was nice was that the stores offered discounts for large orders, and he always
qualified for those. Compared to TV and cell phone bills, five to ten dollars per day for photos
almost seemed conservative.
---
By the time Terry grumbled himself awake, his alarm clock read 10:42 in dull red lines.
Even in this weary waking phase, he was grateful, mostly because he didn’t have work today.
Terry was a bank teller, which was far from lucrative, but it paid more than anything else he

3. qualified for, not to mention the hours were reasonable. His shifts were late enough for some
morning photos and, by the time he clocked out, there was still sufficient sunlight for a few
more shots. Terry seldom took nighttime photos; he wasn’t fond of using Nikon’s flash feature.
He felt that whatever light the world offered should suffice. Although Nikon couldn’t always
replicate what Terry saw in regards to lighting, there were times it produced images superior in
color and clarity to the actual thing. Nikon had lenses to work with as opposed to actual eyes,
which automatically adapted, for better or for worse. As a result, if both Nikon and Terry looked
at the exact same patch of grass for an entire day, the question of which one saw it in the
sharpest hue would simply depend on the time and conditions.
One good thing about waking up late was the fact that the drugstore had more time to get
the photos printed. Each one had assured Terry that an hour was all they needed, but he knew
how printers were--the papers he wrote in school made certain of that. It wasn’t a frequent
occurrence, but every so often, Terry had to wait an entire day to acquire his photos, despite the
fact he always submitted them just before going to bed the previous night. During those
occasions, he’d usually wait, asking the photo technicians an occasional question.
“So do you guys look at every single picture from every single order?” He’d ask.
“We’re supposed to,” they’d respond. “But sometimes we’ll get backed up with large
orders and be left to skim them. We never get any suspicious photos, anyway. The worst stuff is
usually hunting pictures.” The very thought of animals in hunting pictures made Terry shutter
inside. Disgusting, he’d thought. But he didn’t let this show.
There was no debacle today. The clerk operating the printers instantly recognized Terry
from previous visits and rung up the order before Terry could even find his wallet. “You guys
are always so prompt,” Terry chuckled at the clerk. He barely looked eighteen.

4. “Speed makes efficiency,” the clerk glowed, complete with an obnoxious smile. Terry
didn’t like that the employees were expected to be boisterous and courteous. It never felt
genuine. But he knew there was no sense in starting a debate. What could he (or they) do about
it?
“Sometimes it does,” Terry said, handing the clerk a twenty. “But it’s always good to slow
down and take things in.”
The clerk took the twenty, striking a note between a scoff and a laugh. “Not here it isn’t!”
He was really hamming it up.
“Well, don’t stress yourself out too much,” Terry said, accepting the receipt, change and
dense envelop.
“I’ll certainly try. Have a good day, Terry!”
“You as well.”
Terry practically went everywhere with Nikon, but he didn’t carry it into the store. Retail
only got interesting when customers turned ornery on unbeknownst employees. Some people
found those moments viral-video-worthy. Terry would simply roll his eyes and walk away.
It was always a short drive between Terry’s house and whatever drugstore he picked. If
there was anything towns and cities seemed to have more of than banks and credit unions, it
was pharmacies and medical centers. Terry found the observation somewhat discomforting, but
like the clerk’s feigned enthusiasm, it was just another routine thing. He couldn’t wait to go
home and look through the pictures, even if only one really mattered.
After locking the front door behind him, Terry tore open the envelop and rummaged
through the pictures like a speed reader skimming a memo pad. About 40 prints in, he came to
it: the picture of the young couple spinning in the streets. As expected, it looked less than

5. spectacular; the picture quality was far from sharp and the surrounding people made for a lousy
background, but Terry hated cropping pictures before printing them. He held the photo up
between his thumb and index finger, coming to a pose similar to someone checking a $100 bill
for authenticity. Terry was in such a rush to get inside and view this picture that he forgot he
had left Nikon in his car.
In what would normally be a guest room, Terry opened the door to what was, in reality, a
giant collage. Strings spread across the room like a poorly conceived spiderweb. Some were
connected by walls parallel, others adjacent. A few were angled, but most of them were without
incline or decline. From each string hung an assortment of paper-thin fringes, like bangs on a
woman’s purse. The room’s two accompanying windows were covered by black curtains made
from a dense, soft cotton. No sunlight ever shone here. The room’s only source of illumination
was a projector light set on the ground, just out of the door’s reach when opened. Any method
to this web of strands of photos was achieved by having them all face the projector light. Every
time Terry looked at it, he imagined the photo strands as members of an audience at an
amphitheater, except the roles of performer and viewer had been reversed, so that the audience
was the source of attention. What made this easier to imagine was that each strand of a picture
showed a single person. Terry took the time to go through every photo, cut each individual
person out, and hang up his favorites. No strand had more than one whole person in it.
Today was a pleasant exception. What drew Terry to his picture of the young couple
spinning in the street wasn’t so much the affection they showed, but their proximity. They were
so literally into each other that cutting a line between them wouldn’t only be difficult, it’d be
cruel. Much as Terry loved his ever-growing audience, he had the most affection for those who
only needed each other for an audience. It was quickly becoming his new favorite picture. He

6. didn’t even want to bother with the other 125. But he had a resolve to uphold.
After a couple hours of meticulous cutting, Terry finally set the withered pair of scissors
on the rough carpet floor. His method for memorizing each person’s location was mostly color-
based. Various tones of white, black, red and blue were always popular, and while Terry could
distinguish a white-shirted woman in her 70’s from a white-shirted woman in her 30’s, so many
people began to look like clones of one another. This instilled a troubling conflict for him, since
he initially meant for his audience to blend together. Now, after who knows how long, it finally
came to be. Yet it was too much so. Terry wanted variety and liveliness, but realizing such
would mean disrupting the harmony he’d spent so much time constructing. The mundane or
the chaotic, he thought.
Looking at his work, Terry decided to add a few more members to the audience. He
hardly gave them a thought, outside of their shirt colors. The remaining strands were returned
to their former home in the envelop, which joined a host of others in one of many shoeboxes,
which were stacked atop each other to form a sort of pyramid in the immediate right corner of
the room. Any remaining scraps of the photos without people in them were thrown out. The
garbage bags were always overflowing.
Terry closed the door to his photo room, holding the couple’s picture in his left hand. He
could stare at them all day. Then, as he entered the dining room, he noticed the time shining on
his seldom-used stove.
“12:57? Damnit!”
Terry set the picture upside down on top of his closed MacBook and began frantically
pacing about the adjoining living room. “Nikon, Nikon, Nikon...where the hell are you, Nikon?”
A few minutes of talking to himself brought Terry back to his car. Sure enough, Nikon

7. was there, tucked inside its branded carrying case.
“Idiot,” Terry exclaimed at himself. I’ll say, Nikon thought. Heat and electronics don’t
mix.
Terry slowly recuperated and thought over what he’d need for the day. He already had
the essentials on him--wallet, keys, Nikon in the car. All he’d have to do is lock the door and be
on his way.
The summertime sun and muted breeze brought a sudden sense of freedom to Terry.
Today should be different, he thought. He locked the front door to his house and strode back to
his car, taking Nikon out of the carry case and checking the battery life. 64%.
“Well, there’s no reason you shouldn’t last a few more hours. Why waste a charge?”
Terry sounded like he was talking to Nikon, but he was really talking to himself in a way. That
was one of the side effects of living alone. He liked talking to himself, it meant he could give
himself company whenever he wanted.
Feeling slightly adventurous, Terry snugged himself into his ’97 Pontiac Sunfire, revving
it to life and pulling out of the driveway. He turned on the radio and “Sweet Caroline” rang out
on the 99.3 station. It was as good a sign as any.
Terry chose to head north and into the greater city. Last night’s crowds and fireworks
seemed to reduce his reclusive nature. Most of Terry’s pictures were of people with slow and
steady lives, so when the car rumbled onto the highway, Nikon realized what was happening
and also began to feel a degree of excitement.
Though there was no dearth of traffic from the highway and into the building-ridden
area, there seemed to be a notable shortage of pedestrians walking about. Then again, it was
Sunday and many were likely recovering from an overly indulgent night. If the air had smelt of

8. smoke then, it had since been replaced by poor cab exhaust. Even Nikon, without a nose,
thought the atmosphere was a bit on the putrid side. Everyone seemed to have their eyes fixed
on their phones, their minds ignorant at best. Not exactly ideal photo material, but Terry
snapped a few for the sake of it. Returning home with no photos was worse than not leaving the
house at all. Unfulfilled, Terry hoped he’d have better luck spotting something at a cafe while he
filled his stomach. The Misto seemed a fair fit; it was neither vacant nor packed--a steady
stream kept going in and out.
Terry made sure he sat at a booth. Between the short and worn seat in his Pontiac
Sunfire and walking awkwardly for the past 40 minutes, he was down for some comfort. The
never-ending aromas of various brews of coffee overwhelmed him more than yesterday’s
burgers and hot dogs. He’d skipped his breakfast/morning caffeine fix, so he knew exactly what
to “start off with,” as the waitress put it. Craving a bit more sugar to round out his gradual
elevation, Terry ordered a side of biscotti to precede his order of french toast and bacon. Like
any person with good taste, Terry got the biscotti for the sole purpose of dipping it into the
coffee. When his meal finally came, all other concerns vanished. Sunday was a prime day to
have something like french toast for breakfast, even if it was technically lunchtime. The Misto
didn’t discriminate.
By the time Terry cleared his plate, The Misto had mostly cleared up. He quickly realized
half his reason for coming here had been wasted. “Fucking convenient,” he whispered in
frustration.
“You all finished?” The waitress startled him.
“Oh, uh...yes. But add one more cup of coffee, then I’ll take the check.”
“Certainly!” She grabbed his plates, speaking in that overly enthusiastic voice Terry

9. couldn’t stand. It was even worse to stomach on top of french toast and biscotti. “I’ll have your
coffee and check right out!”
Terry returned a nod and smile as she walked away. When she was out of sight, he
slouched in the booth with a groan.
While he waited, Terry took Nikon out of its case and searched the cafe for any potential.
The only thing that caught his eye was the steam emitting from the coffee makers, but he wasn’t
fond of photos that emphasized inanimate objects. That’s what online sites like Amazon and
eBay were for. Defeated all over again, he breathed in and out of his nose with a certain heft.
That’s when the waitress returned with a half-full coffee pot in one hand and a slip of paper in
the other. She placed the check on the table and refilled his empty cup.
“There you go sir,” she exclaimed again. “Have a--oh. Are you a photographer?”
The comment caught Terry off guard. She was eying the camera; if Nikon had cheeks,
it’d be blushing right now.
“In a way,” Terry responded, clumsily reaching for the sugar and creamer packets. “I’m
no professional, but I get a fair shot every now and again.”
“Oh. You get a few good ones last night?”
“Of the fireworks? They don’t usually come out so well, nighttime and all. But I got a
couple decent ones while the sun was still out.”
“Well that’s good! You should keep at it, might be able to get a bit of money while doing
it.” She turned her body but kept her face on Terry. “Have a good day, sir!”
“Thanks. You as well.” Terry could hardly feign excitement. It went against his everyday
instinct. He began sipping and eventually swallowed his entire cup in one go, hoping the
combination of sugar, caffeine and heat would hit him well. Alas, the coffee’s temperature had

10. mellowed well before the waitress refilled his cup.
With a glance at the bill, Terry scoffed under his breath, left the waitress a fairly generous
tip and exited The Misto, holding Nikon with his right hand, slouching.
As Terry stepped outside, the day’s progress made him realize why he seldom gave in to
his adventurous impulses. Most of the time these “adventures” offered the same satisfaction as
walking a nature trail with city-wide rain clouds for company. And go figure, mother nature
must’ve been reading Terry’s exact thoughts.
Everything had been cut back and cut down today. If Terry had a sliver of luck left for the
day, he’d reach his Pontiac with raindrops to spare. Unconvinced of this future, he began to
settle Nikon into its carry case, but the two were being stubborn. Terry felt each of fingers
clench as he readied an exclamation before he heard a noise pinch his ears. It sounded shrill,
like a wail. The first thing Terry imagined was a wounded dog, possibly beaten. Then it
sounded again, this time with a moaning undercurrent. Both noises seemed to originate in the
alley Terry had just blindly passed. The surrounding buildings weren’t particularly rundown,
though the usual hints of suspicion like piles of black garbage bags and broken fences--wood
and wire alike--made the entire area seem ill-fated.
Terry stared down the alleyway with apprehension, massaging Nikon with both of his
hands. Before he could further contemplate his surroundings, the sound returned, only this
time he discerned a high-pitched “no!” Without thought, he barely entered into a light jog,
keeping his heels above ground. The whole alleyway reeked like sewage. Whether it was meat
or fish didn’t matter, the stench was foul enough to coerce one into endless retching. Breathing
through not but his mouth was of no use; that initial hit to Terry’s nose was there to stay. That’s
when his eye caught the source of the noise. The brief moment of realization was just enough

11. for Terry to conclude what was happening. He retreated behind the corner of the nearest
building. A man and woman were wrestling against the adjacent wall. Of course, “wrestling”
was a very loose term for it.
What Terry meant to be a peek turned into a full-on stare when the very front of his face
protruded from the brick wall. The man was short but stout, strong enough to keep the slightly
taller woman pressed against the wall. He had one hairy arm raised, its hand half-covering the
woman’s face. The other arm, which Terry hardly saw, must’ve been working its way around
both of their mid-bodies. Then came the wailing noise again, only this time it was further
muffled.
“SHHH! Shhhh,” the man breathed heavily through his teeth. It wasn’t a soothing pitch,
more like a frantic panting. As the woman whimpered, the man made another series of noises,
still through his teeth. Terry didn’t catch the entire thing, but the words “more noise” and
“fucking shoot” were discernible enough. That’s when the man unzipped the girl’s light blue
jeans and seemed to place something in the newly opened hole. It was difficult to see, but Terry
noticed it looked short, black and metallic. A GUN!
Terry retracted his face behind the corner again, hoping to collect himself, but the
ongoing song of grunts and weeps made this a futile attempt at best. Amidst the terrible
commotion ringing in his ears, Terry nearly forgot that he still had Nikon in his hands. He
turned it over and around as if inspecting it for the first time, wondering if by some miracle the
camera would communicate with him. Nikon had a number of thoughts at this particular
moment, but not one would be communicated to Terry.
As if automated, Terry spotted Nikon’s tiny speaker and covered it with his thumb,
followed by pressing the power button. Nikon turned on with a muted beeping. With one and a

12. half deep breaths, Terry peeked around the corner again to find that the man was REALLY
pushing himself against the woman this time, her trembling hands covering her face. Terry
could hear her weeping.
Confident that neither member was aware of his presence, Terry leveled his shooting
angle close to the ground. He zoomed in, stopping just before any part of either person was cut
out. With the speaker still covered, he pressed down on the shutter button and heard the
camera emit a brief clicking noise. She must have heard it.
The woman let her hands drop as her face turned towards Terry. He lifted his gaze from
the camera screen and onto her face. She hardly looked womanly now. Between the pink in her
pouring eyes and the puff in her cheeks, she looked young enough to be in high school. Terry
only needed those five seconds to interpret the plea of help on her face. Only then did the man
seem to notice that she was looking away.
That’s when Terry retreated. Not just behind the corner, but back up the alleyway. He
promptly turned Nikon off, fitting it back into the carrying case as quickly as his rushed stride,
which gradually slowed as he became more conscious of his movements. He soon reached the
streets and sidewalks, finding them even more deprived of pedestrians than before. It took all
of Terry’s willpower to not break into a sprint, brief though it would be. This began to slip as he
found and entered his car, driving off with a couple swift presses on the gas pedal.
Normally Terry was quite obedient of traffic laws, but today they felt negotiable at best.
He didn’t even care when a particularly nasty swerve brought Nikon and the carrying case from
the passenger seat to the floor. All he cared about was getting away from the city and back
home.
It was just after six when Terry entered his driveway. He still felt an overwhelming rush

13. that no dosage of caffeine would ever match. Miraculously, he didn’t drop his keys while
fumbling them to open the front door. Once inside, he locked up, sat at the dining room table
and awoke his MacBook, paying the downturned picture no mind as it slid out of view. He
attempted to slouch and ease back into the chair, but there was no calming his heart’s pulsation.
Connecting Nikon to the MacBook was another shaky experience, one that left the camera and
computer concerned for varying reasons.
Despite his current state, Terry continued with his usual routine of uploading pictures to
print at a nearby drugstore. The order was on the small side at 54 prints, but he’d still get the
discount. Terry reminded himself that they usually weren’t too scrutinous about the pictures
they received, so he made a conscious effort to slow his breathing.
Once the order was placed, Terry did something a little different. He went through the
Finder to pull up the last picture he’d taken today. Once he did, he looked behind his MacBook
and examined the picture from July 4th. And there he sat, alternating his gaze between the high
point of today and the high point of yesterday, unable to decide which picture struck him the
most.