I was 19, it was September, my feet were wet. I was deep in the Amazonian jungle looking for a story, trying to make my name. I’d finished school a year earlier and left home. In one bag a camera, in the other youthful ignorance. Chico was my fixer. I'd paid him well to take me to a tribe living the old life. No Coke, no Tv, you know what I mean. Fame was imminent. Then it happened, a sudden pain in my heart followed by the sound of a shot gun. My mothers words rang in my ear, “don’t get killed”. I was dead. A bullet from a game hunters gun had bounced off a rock and hit my chest. I looked down, there was no blood! I inspected my body with eager salvation. Hanging from my neck a Minolta SRT 101 with a shattered 50mm lens. My camera had caught the bullet! I had my story. I would be a photographer.*
*my photographs are real, my bio is fiction.