The Photographers by Stephen Mosley
Description
Vocal Characteristics
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EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
just a little crossed. Edward Milk Lee was looking at pictures of graves and feeling envious. He wished his own photographs of cemeteries could be covered with frost, but they weren't. Thus Old George meet have won again. He was a man not to be beaten. The two men met each week to compare photographs. They both shared a liking for the bizarre, malformed and uncanny, and sought these qualities everywhere, from rusted railings, crooked tombstones and mild trees, too decrepit buildings and haunted skies, anything within their landscape that suggested it was populated by ghosts. They liked to capture these images on camera and ran private competitions between themselves to see who could come up with the gas list. Depiction. Meet Andi Milk Lee photographers Cobb meet toward tomb or brandy's from the decanter and sailed smugly across the dimly lit but spacious chamber. He walked a little more upright than usual, but just a little. His form still took on the shape of scrunched up paper rescued from the bin. Just a little frost, he repeated. It really makes graveyards look nicer. Of course, I had to get up extra early to achieve the right effect. In fact, I didn't go to bed at all. It was so early. It was still night. Edward knew he had bean in bed, dreaming of the girl on the number 43 bus. Whilst meet had taken these photographs, they were better than his own, and he hated himself for it. The way the ethereal layer of frost dusted the cracked grey stone of the local cemetery almost made one shiver with delight Edward and shots of the same uneven graves. But these were taken at early dusk. Did not a Jack Frost dribble inside? He often envied George in his single minded dedication to their craft. Little did he appreciate that photography was a distraction from the old man's learnings, from memories of the family he'd long believed dead George meet new, a sadness so great that it seemed vital to enforce obscurity about himself. Of course, at 100 something years old, George Walls to be polite, a little more experienced than young Edward. Indeed, Milk Lee often wondered how George could ever have reached such a wizard and age, especially as he was puffing on what appeared to be his 14th cigar that evening. Smoke billowed out of the old man like coins, this gas from an inedible mushrooms, and he had never exercised in his life for fear that his bones might crack. When the Brandies were finished, meet sent young milk li away on the same withering lines until next Tuesday. My friend, they were both men who needed privacy, who hit solitary behind closed doors except on a Tuesday we've had somewhere between ankles, milk. Li made his way down the winding gravel path away from the large but empty house occupied by his friend, away from the foul winds that seemed to blow only around that residence. Far beyond lay the town below the town he thought himself brave to inhabit. Though the walk was long and something of a struggle, he made his way back to his dwelling, a one bedroom DH box that balanced on cobbled streets. Sparse puddles of light rippled in effectively against the gloom. It wasn't so good to be home. The room stank of greying Hughes. It wass in itself a scaled down version of his friend's horrible retreat. He didn't sleep easy that night, through the world of thoughts that greeted his head. Sleep was naturally uneasy. He had to take a photograph to better Georgia's. If he could do that, he could do anything. He imagined how great it would be to a win. George would value his artistic skill. The world may even better. Still, the girl on the 43 bus might notice him and melt at his shy smiles. He knew his sense of the unnatural. Was Justus keen as his sly, scheming Powell. So why should it be such a lumbering Burton? All that week, he deserted all rest and walked and walked through the insidious town. He sculpt through the cemetery but found nothing new. He looked all around him with frightened eyes, camera gripped tightly in long, ashen fingers. There was nothing to top Georgia's frost laden graveyard. Nothing, not even the gloom, sudden clouds that raced through the sky in the guise of shapeless beasts. Not even the grey, human faced pigeon with shattered beak that stuttered through the earth's bright debt. No vision could top meets. His best bet looked to be the old, willowy tree on the banks of the sludge like river. It's rough bark was encrusted in the shape of a screaming woman, its branches brought demons to the sensors and mind. Edward reluctantly snapped it, though he knew George would do better. It was as if the old man could summon grim things for the cameras Pleasure. Then he heard a splash and found himself riddled with Mark from the eddying flows of the rivers. Dark meanderings emerged 56 or seven black shells the size of large dogs. Thie huge Beatles crept from the water and onto the accompanying dirt track, their rough legs locked like distant thunder against the earth beneath. They scurried up, rumbling, manic. An army of depravity, Edward snapped away. Hilariously. He lends the gruesome spectacle in such a way that it filled him with a fantastic loathing. Giddy with revolt, he felt sure he would win the contest. This time, it seemed the world below them quietly shut it. The Beatles passed over it. Then they were gone. In their absence, they left only a petrified silence and hideous droppings laden with frost that young milk Lee also photographed for good measure. He couldn't wait until Tuesday. Sure enough, it wasn't long until Tuesday crept through time like a broken thief from the pit of his mansion, George meet poured another brandy smoke afford from his 11th cigar of the evening. He held aloft his startling new photograph in crisp black and white. It was so clever the way he had trained the grey human faced a pigeon with shattered beak to nestle among the demon like branches of the tree in the form of a screaming woman was even laden with frost. He liked Frost and could do nothing more than admire the way he'd captured it all. Against the backdrop of that gloom sodden sky where clouds raced by guys formless beasts, he knew he was certain to win the game. He awaited young milk, please, clanging at the door with ever emerging fever. The clanging came. Fever raged further, as was choose these ritual. The old man ushered his guest through the elongated door. The two men sat down in meets, darkest chamber. They appeared less animated than the dust on the walls. By the light of a cold blowing fire. They examined each other's photos on viewing milk. Please work. George meet looked sicker than usual. His countenance revealed shades paler than were ever seen on any spectrum milk. Lee had to admit his photos of large beetles were difficult to top. Then, with much grinding and twisting of withered bones, meat stood up, revealing his true seven foot something length. Scream stormed himself into an electric skin. Bones with reluctance began to fizzy bubble peeled away like rotting flesh broken new through the ages, certain it assumed the shape of Vandals. Clay and 10 I slithered through his brow, borrowing above eyes of demented sheen. His clothes tor dribbled away, betraying a body of lumps stiff and unusual, his figure hunched, hunched on hunt further to the Web littered stone ground. A crisp black shell rolls on his back, several spectral spidery legs tor three sides and slumped upon the floor, causing small insects to flee. In terror, George Meet have turned into a beetle, just like the ones in Edward's photographs. Shadows stretched across the saddened building on John's from the speckled wars. The beetle twitched about the room, melding with dark. The weight of its throbbing mass was so heavy that it cracked the stone on which it crept on Decrypted did, scuttling like a frightened mountain dew, the longing to door down the long, winding road that starred the dark halfway down, the raging winds blew the creature onto its back. Its furred crawlers quitted into the light of the Phantom moon with much rubbing of six legs. It flipped itself over with a shuttering, damp, cracked. And then it made its way. Roaming towards the town, young Edward Milky was more than a Gast. It wasn't like George to seek out civilisation. He only wished he brought his camera. The photographers written by Steven Moseley and Dread by John Geiler from the book boy who loved Simone Simone, available from Amazon. Now on certain other selected bookshops. Broad rapper Under the Captain.