Exposure hyperfocal seri.., p.1
Exposure: Hyperfocal Series Book 1, page 1
EXPOSURE
HYPERFOCAL SERIES
BOOK ONE
SCOTT BROCKMAN
Copyright © 2022 White Space Publishing
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CONTENTS
Author’s Note
1. Morris, MN
2. Point of View
3. Limits of an Antarctic Troll
4. Sticky Feet
5. Out of Body Experience
6. A Likely Story
7. All Tied Up
8. Main Competition
9. The Pink Pen
10. Trains, Plains, and Bison
11. Limits of the Modern Observer
12. In the Stands
13. The Pits
14. Holiday Weekend Bonding
15. Limits of Deep Explorers
16. Exit Not Guaranteed
17. Small Town Mystery
18. Streaming Secrets
19. Zoned Out
20. Hyperfocals
21. Stereoscopic Hints
22. Crossed Lines
23. Postcards
24. Scholarship or Bust
25. Unidentified Floating Airships
26. Lead Zeppelin
27. Cardington
28. Just Like the Titanic
29. Hey Joe
30. A Blimp on the Radar
31. Naval Gazing
32. Coma
33. Stolen Credentials
34. The Help
35. Follow Through
36. Plan B
37. Weakened State
38. Reroute
39. Take Two
40. Recovery
41. Erased
42. The IHI
43. Next Stop
Thanks for Reading
The Photos are Real
The Adventure Continues
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear reader,
While most of the events, people, and locations mentioned in this book are true to history, I have taken some liberties and exercised some artistic license in this fictitious work. Therefore, I don’t recommend using this book as a historical point of reference or to settle any debates.
However, I strongly recommend looking into the photos and events mentioned to see how fascinating they really are and to discover new facts for yourself. (More about this at the end of the book!)
Happy exploring,
Scott Brockman
1
MORRIS, MN
I’m gonna fail! thought Mike, staring at his second history grade of the year. The red C+ was better than he imagined, considering he came up empty in identifying the building in his task photo. But this grade represented a horrifying plummet in his performance after his A- in his first assignment. As Jonathan Nicholls sat on his desk at the front of the class, waxing lyrical about Liv Mortensen’s A and others with A- scores, beads of sweat formed on Mike’s forehead. He could feel his chances of winning the full scholarship slipping out of his grasp.
He had to win that scholarship. It was his only way to escape Morris and the vast emptiness of Minnesota and get back home to Chicago. It wouldn’t be the same without his parents in the city, but he couldn’t take living in Morris anymore. He just couldn’t.
He had to do better. Jonathan would put forward only three students for the scholarship application, and he had to be one of those three. Although he considered Jonathan his friend—a fellow out-of-towner who missed the city—his lecturer was a scrupulously fair man and wouldn’t put anyone forward who didn’t meet his standards.
Mike wiped damp tendrils of his dark brown hair off his forehead and looked up. In the row of desks in front of him, Liv’s straight back and long, brown hair intrigued him as much now as they did during their first class together. She still didn’t know his name. In front of her sat Jody and Mary Thorsson—the twins—trying to butter up Jonathan, who raised his eyebrows at Mike, calling his attention back to the class discussion. In his khaki chinos and white shirt, Jonathan looked less like an Indiana Jones-type of professor and more like a software engineer, like Mike’s dad had been. The dull pain of missing his father nagged at Mike. He was glad no one in Morris reminded him of his mother. Their funeral didn’t seem that long ago, and he still hurt at the thought of never seeing them again.
“I know some of you found your last assignment more challenging than expected,” said Jonathan, standing up to his full height, then stooping and taking long steps to the electronic whiteboard like a displaced stork. “But let’s see what you’ve discovered about research and research methods—a core skill for any historian!” Brandishing the whiteboard marker, Jonathan pointed at a stern-faced boy to whom Mike hadn’t spoken yet, tapping the air as if clicking on the whiteboard.
Mike sighed, dreading his turn, and rubbed his brown eyes. What had he learned about research methods? That internet records went back only so far or could be frustratingly sketchy? That going over local history while trying to match an unlabeled black-and-white photo of a generic-looking house was back-breaking, tedious work that had yielded nothing? That posting the photo on social media was like throwing a charm into jello? It just sat in his feed with no helpful comments, merely underlining that, after almost two years, he still didn’t have someone he could call a friend in Morris—except for his lecturer. Approaching his godparents, Russell and Susan, for help had at least brought one lead—one that concluded in a dead end.
“Mike?”
Startled, he looked up again. Jonathan’s marker was pointing at him.
Shifting in his chair, Mike cleared his throat, not meeting anyone’s eye. “I learned that… some facts may be lost forever. We might never find what we’re looking for… at least, with the present-day technology and resources available to us.”
Jonathan nodded, but his expectant expression pressured Mike for more. With resentment rising at the man who’d given him the impossible task and now expected more than he could give, Mike’s thoughts whirred for an intelligent answer.
The Thorsson twins and half the class had turned to stare at Mike, either interested in his answer or his discomfort. By a small mercy, Liv’s back was still facing him. Clearing his throat again, Mike said, “I also learned that labeling things for posterity is vital, that more than several avenues of research must be explored, and that sometimes persistence doesn’t pay off as much as luck.”
Jonathan nodded, his hand on his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Hmm. Interesting. Who agrees with Mike about those points?”
Slumping into his chair, Mike considered Liv Mortensen. Would she be interested in going out with a failed historian? What was she even doing in history class? What were any of them doing here? Half of them would end up as small-town teachers anyways, just like Jonathan. As much as he admired the man, Mike had other plans for his history degree, but he needed that scholarship. He couldn’t risk staying in Morris forever—stuck amid blank, terrifying winter storms and hot, bucolic summers marked by farmers’ fairs and square dances. Alone with his kind but inattentive godparents. He’d fade into nothing—become less than a scarecrow—never amount to anything to make his parents’ memories proud.
Would it be more bearable if he had someone like Liv Mortensen as his girlfriend? She knew of life beyond the vast horizon, having been the celebrated exchange student who sent daily missives to Morris from Portugal. She wasn’t like the other girls around town—she always had her nose stuck in a book, much like him. She had friends, even though she seldom hung out with them, and she’d been the most celebrated Cougars’ girlfriend before she left for Europe. It had been the talk of the town when Brenden Klaus had split up with her while she was away. She hadn’t gone out with anyone since.
Mike shifted in his chair and sighed. What would she want with a guy who couldn’t work up the nerve to say hi?
But what if?
What if I asked her out and she said yes? They’d talk about history—personal and world—and compare Lisbon, Chicago, and Morris. He’d tell her about the time his parents drove them coast-to-coast when he was six but leave out the bits about his carsickness and throwing up in each state. He’d outgrown that, after all. Would she feel the same way about Ancient Egypt and the Mayas as he did, or was she more into Western Civilization or Modern History? Would she agree 10,000 BC was the most romantic movie or pan it as his friends back in Chicago had? Or would she get stuck on the fact that it should have been called 10,000 BCE?
“Mike? What research methods work best for you?” Jonathan’s worried eyes bored into his own from across the room.
“Er… I’m
Jonathan’s gaze flicked to Liv, then back to Mike. “I see,” was all the lecturer said.
As the students fled or made their meandering way out of class, Jonathan gestured to Mike.
“A word, please.”
Mike reluctantly walked up to Jonathan, who stood appraising him for a few seconds as Mike studied the carpet.
Before the silence grew too awkward, Jonathan sighed and then said, “You did quite well, all things considered, and I don’t think any less of you.”
Mike looked up at him in surprise.
Jonathan gave him a faint, slightly puzzled smile before continuing, “You got the toughest photo of the lot. That’s what you get for sitting way in the back. It’s a wonder you found out anything about that house.”
With a shrug, Mike said, “I got lucky. Russell remembered Mrs. Pattison used to run the local history club, but even she couldn’t quite tell whether the house had stood on Kjenstad Park or South Atlantic Avenue.”
Jonathan’s smile was big and warm. “I guess you did. All the same, you’ve learned the importance of oral traditions.”
“Yeah.” Mike sighed. “Maybe it’ll be more useful in the future.”
“For sure,” nodded Jonathan, then clapped Mike’s shoulder in encouragement. “Look, I still have faith in your work and abilities. You’re going to make a great historian one day.”
“But,” said Mike, giving Jonathan a defeated look, “you said you’re going to take the average of our first three grades to choose the students you’re putting forward for the scholarship.”
Jonathan nodded. “I did, and I am.”
“Then…” Mike looked down at the floor again, wishing it would swallow him up.
Jonathan’s voice was low but firm. “The game’s not over, kiddo. You can still ace the next assignment and be one of the three, no problem.”
“Easy for you to say.” Mike shot Jonathan a sidelong glance. “I don’t suppose….”
Jonathan chuckled. “No way, Jose! You can find out about your next assignment tomorrow, along with everyone else. But I can promise you one thing.” He gathered his possessions, heading for the door. Mike fell into step next to him. “You’re going to love it! I can’t wait to read everyone’s assignment.”
Ambling beside him, Mike shook his head. “That sounds ominous.”
Jonathan laughed. “If you promise not to be such a drag, I’ll tell you about the Cahokia webinar.”
“Deal,” said Mike with a grin. His interest in the ancient mounds in Missouri was growing the more he learned about them.
It was unseasonably hot as Mike walked down the road alongside the Big Cat Stadium and onto East 2nd Street, then turned right past the coffee shop on Columbia, pragmatically named—like so many things in Morris—The Coffee Shop. The smell of vanilla and smooth roast beans beckoned his attention, and he investigated the wide, inviting windows. Liv Mortensen sat alone at a red and peach booth with an open textbook, a plate of cookies, and a steaming cup beside her. But all her attention was on her smartphone. For an instant, Mike yearned to walk in and introduce himself. Maybe break the ice by asking her for some advice on her research methods. Her head moved up as she reached for her mug, and Mike saw the tightly drawn lines on her tired face.
He turned and continued home. This isn’t the time to disturb Liv. Unlike him, she chose to be alone, didn’t she? Besides, he had a lot of work to do, and he wanted to read more on Cahokia and compare them to the Mayan mounds.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful, he thought, if Jonathan handed us an assignment on Native American mounds? The topic was high on Jonathan’s list of passions, and he was very knowledgeable about them. Then again, Jonathan was very knowledgeable about many aspects of history—particularly modern history. He’d once watched an old war movie with Jonathan, who laughed most of the way through, pointing out all the inaccuracies, from the tanks to the uniforms. One day, I’ll do the same for my specialty. With that determined thought, Mike walked home through the hazy afternoon to his pizza and books.
2
POINT OF VIEW
Shivering in the morning wind, Mike hurried up the stairs of the Humanities building and into the warmth of the classroom. He nodded to Jonathan standing by the computer and loading up his presentation for class, then made his way to his seat at the back, brushing by Liv’s desk. She didn’t look up from reading the paper set in front of each chair. Others in the class were reading through the handout, too, with rapt attention.
Curious, his heart beating a nervous tattoo with the knowledge that the handout must be related to the next assignment, Mike sat down and placed an unsteady hand on the paper.
‘Conspiracies! Find the Truth!’ read the title. The sub-header followed with, ‘Or at least find the facts…’ and a list: ‘the Roswell Crash of 1947, the Assassination of JF Kennedy, the 1961 Moon Landing, the Death of Princess Diana, the Capitol Riots of 2021.’
Mike slumped in his seat. I’m so gonna fail! Quickly, he read the rest of the handout. The assignment sought a balanced view of the incidents and why some or all elements of the conspiracies existed. The good news was that he needed to only write about one conspiracy. Whispers around class revealed some students were already choosing the last two on Princess Diana and the Capitol Riots for their countless internet articles and wide coverage. Mike jiggled his leg, then set the paper aside. He wanted to learn what Jonathan had to say in class before choosing his topic. There was no way he was going to jump the gun and jinx his final effort to be nominated for that scholarship.
Finally, Jonathan stood formally in front of the electronic whiteboard, exhibiting snapshots of a headline related to the assignment topics. Jonathan shut his eyes and said, “Con—Con—Conspiracies!” Opening his eyes, he gave an impish grin that eased the tension in class. A few students giggled. Mike settled in his chair, marveling at his friend and lecturer. He was lucky to have a teacher who could turn the most dreaded topics into engaging material.
“How do you evaluate reports and accounts around events mired in a conspiracy?” intoned Jonathan. “Do you give the same academic weight to every article? How do you determine if that article or report is, in fact, factual and worthy of making its way into the accounts of history?” Jonathan paused, looked down at the floor, then paced deliberately to the computer. “And do you include references to the conspiracies in an academic account or ignore them altogether?” Turning to face the class with a serious look, he met each student’s eye in turn. “It’s time to determine the kind of historian you’ll be: popular, academic, or somewhere in between. No judgment, except your own.” The class was treated to another of Jonathan’s impish smiles.
Mike glanced at the five conspiracies, still uncertain which one he should choose. So much rode on his next grade. His eyes flicked to Liv. Which topic will she choose?
Jonathan had started a presentation, drawing Mike’s attention. “For your next assignment, as you’ve gleaned from the handout in front of you, you’ll write your own historical account and a brief evaluation of the main facts you chose to incorporate, along with your reasoning and supporting material. I won’t kid you guys; this is going to be a lot of work. But! For those of you wishing to apply for the Petersen and Malvern Scholarship, this assignment will carry 50% of my evaluation toward your application, along with your first two assignments. That means, if you didn’t score so well on your first two assignments, you still have a chance to be recommended for the scholarship if you go all out on this one.”
