The Traveler

The Traveler
A Fictional Account of a Sunrise Photo Shoot
With Amy Caroline Goodenough

There is something wonderful about the world at 5am. Before the sun has touched the horizon, long after the night has ended but before the morning has begun, the tip-tapping of heels and crunching of gravel beneath my feet acts as my anthem. It is as relentless as the humming of the insects that rise to greet the morning as I do, and about as voluntary. My legs move on without my mind – it’s left to wander cities and streets of memories as my muscles move me ever forward.

Sometimes there are lights that guide me, other times the darkness is my sole companion. A car will occasionally race by, blinding me, taking advantage of the empty road in a way that I can appreciate, the lingering scents of petrol and burnt rubber the only impressions that they leave. I breathe in the aromas as they blend into the still cool air and hold them in my lungs, a reminder of civilisation.

I will wander roads for days at a time, never conscious of the direction in which I’m heading, never knowing where my feet will lead me next. The world is my roadmap, the flora and fauna its markings as well as my shelter. I carry little with me but memories that weigh me down and keep me grounded.

Scheherazade

Amy Goodenough
23
Grahamstown


I'd never noticed the tattoo before - the font that twirls around itself to tell a story just like its namesake. Though it's not loud or bold, it speaks volumes about its owner. "Scheherazade" it reads. The storyteller.

As she pivots herself on the edge of the chair, as her hair sways back and forth and as she lies on the warm white rug, Amy Goodenough tells me her story through the way that she moves and the ring of her laughter. I have known her for years, but it feels as though this hour spent in the studio has granted me some kind of insight into her person that I didn't have before.

She reads through her favourite book, selecting passages to read aloud to me. They are passages that I have heard before, but hearing them in her voice makes all the difference, and the words ring through the studio leaving their echoes in my memory so that each time I think of Lemony Snicket, my mind will immediately jump to this afternoon spent together.

As she writes in her journal, I watch her hand fall across the page, her concentration, her word weaving, and I am left in awe. I cannot think of a tattoo more apt for her than Scheherazade, and I will think of her ever more as the story teller.