Scrounger: Eight

his was going to be Pulitzer material, he thought. The photographer can’t look away, and must always hit the shutter. To his dismay, he left the camera bag in the car. He was without his telephoto. To do this story justice, he needed to inch closer.

He realized later he had gotten too close.

His press badge swung around his neck as he climbed over the fence, but got caught. As he tugged it free, he lost balance down the bankment beneath 79, slid down, and stopped himself with his right hand. He winced, looked at his hand and saw an incision in his palm. What had he cut his hand on?

He regained his balance, stood up and watched as blood began to creep out of the wound. It started to trickle, and he wiped it on his jeans. Next to him was more blood. And a shard of glass. What was that in it? Chewed up eraser? It looked coagulated. He followed the path of the blood down to the body.

He spun around as vomit erupted through his esophagus, but not before he grabbed his Pulitzer prize winning shot.