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Autumn slowed her steps as she neared the window o’ a place named “Li’l Shop for Hoarders”, glossy e’en under fall’s faded sun, as if the storeowner had set up the sun itself to improve their presentation, so she could capture a longer image o’ the camera — sleek, black with a silver circle round its lens, text too small to read embossed in silver letters in the top left corner, & many other tiny details that probably pumped up its price. But it wasn’t the appearance o’ the camera that interested Autumn so much as the possibilities it presented: she’d read ’bout a local contest where people who took pictures o’ the strangest thing they could find in Boskeopolis would get a 30,000₧ prize; & part o’ her thought, well, she knew a disgusting abundance ’bout what was out there in this ferreous forest thru her many explorations searching for treasure, which she ne’er found…

{ I’ve ne’er found any ’cause I’m a dumbfuck guttertrash teenager, which is why I wouldn’t win this contest. I’d be competing with hundreds o’ people, many with decades o’ experience in photography & photo editing. My slow-ass laptop wouldn’t e’en be able to run whate’er expensive programs I’d need, much less would I be able to afford them }.

{ I mos-def won’t be able to afford the camera, either. ¿So why am I wasting my time looking @ it? }.

Then a voice — like a demon, if Autumn were so superstitious — said in her mind, { ¿So why not steal it? }.

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