Information
Camera
Legacy Name: Camera
The
Common Experiment #585Owner:
AlchemyAge: 54 years, 3 months, 3 weeks
Born: December 31st, 1969
Adopted: 10 years, 8 months, 4 weeks ago
Adopted: July 28th, 2013
Statistics
- Level: 3
- Strength: 5
- Defense: 21
- Speed: 21
- Health: 15
- HP: 15/15
- Intelligence: 1
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
When I took on this job, I never thought it'd end up like this. I had been hired to photograph the suffering of those that lived in this war-torn village for a journal. The pay was decent and I was down on my luck, so I had thought myself pretty lucky that this had fallen into my lap. The gig was simple enough. The bush-plane had dropped me off with instructions to return in a week. Night three is when the shit hit the fan.
It has been two days since I last ate. Any energy that small portion of food had given has long since been depleted. It’s been six hours since I last had a sip of filthy water. My canteen is now empty, hanging on my side, slamming against my thigh as we run. My body feels like it’s about to give up, but I know that if I stop moving, I will die, just as surely as those who had already collapsed behind us. Even the other refugees didn’t stop to help those that had fallen. They knew that doing so was a death sentence.
As we move through the scraggly trees, occasionally I can hear gunshots behind me, sounding like too-close thunder. The ground beneath me is rumbling as hundreds of feet try to outrun the slaughter. My heartbeat is in my throat. My camera is beating against my chest. There is no time, but I stop and spin, quickly pointing my camera towards the fearful faces running towards me, trucks holding men with guns in the distance. The shutter goes off and I capture the moment. The camera drops against my chest again as I turn and run, hoping like hell that I'm fast enough.
Nightfall is upon us. The onslaught has ended for now. We finally put enough distance between us and the demons chasing us. One of the survivors told me in broken-English that we’re within a day’s travel to the border. Our exhausted group is attempting to rest before the final push to escape this hellhole. I can see the fatigue on their faces. I pull my camera in front of my face again and capture a photograph of a few of the villagers huddled together for warmth. There are no fires tonight. We cannot give away our location.
Morning has come. My body aches and my mind is slow. There has been no sign of the enemy at least. No gunshots in the distance, no tell-tale rumble of engines. It is quiet for now. Those of us that are left, a mere fraction of those who lived in the village, gather what little we have. There is no water nearby. There is no food. There are children crying. Their parents are gone. Their hope is gone. Nothing will ever be the same. I kneel to their level and snap a picture of their filthy, tear-streaked faces. If I survive this ordeal, I swear to God that I will never forget their pain.
We resume our journey, weak and weary, with the border tantalizingly close but still far enough to test our endurance. The sun beats down mercilessly, scorching the earth beneath our feet. The landscape around us is barren, devoid of any signs of life. The children cling to my side, their tiny hands grasping my shirt as if I hold the key to their salvation. I can feel their desperation, their longing for safety and solace.
As we trudge forward, the weight of the camera around my neck becomes heavier, reminding me of my purpose. I am here to document their suffering, their resilience, and the atrocities they have endured. It is a burden I carry willingly, knowing that these images will serve as a testimony to the world, a plea for help that cannot be ignored.
Hours turn into an eternity as we press on, our pace slowing with each passing step. The sun begins its descent, casting an orange glow across the horizon. Anxiety gnaws at my gut, mingling with hunger and exhaustion. We are running out of time, and with every passing moment, the enemy could close in on us once again.
Just when it seems like we cannot take another step, we hear a distant rumble. Hope flickers in our hearts as we realize it is not the roar of an approaching enemy, but the sound of an engine. A rescue convoy. Tears of relief stream down our faces as the vehicles come into view, their presence a symbol of salvation.
With renewed strength, we quicken our pace, stumbling forward until we reach the safety of the convoy. We are greeted by aid workers and soldiers who offer food, water, and medical assistance. The children are whisked away, cradled in caring arms, while the adults collapse in exhaustion.
I lower my camera, feeling a mixture of relief and sorrow. The war-torn village, the suffering, the fear—they are now captured within its lens, frozen in time. The world will bear witness to their pain, their struggle, and their indomitable spirit. But it is bittersweet, for the price paid for these photographs is immeasurable.
As the convoy transports us to a refugee camp, I vow to never forget the faces I captured, the stories they told without words. Their images will remain etched in my memory, a constant reminder of the horrors of war and the resilience of the human spirit. I will continue to use my camera as a weapon, fighting the apathy and indifference that plague our world, until every voice is heard, until every suffering soul finds solace and justice.
In the end, this job transformed me. It taught me the true power of an image, the responsibility that comes with bearing witness, and the importance of raising awareness and inspiring action. And as I continue my journey, I carry the stories of the war-torn village, the voices of the oppressed, and the hope of a better future in my heart.
Art byAlchemy using NightCafe.
It has been two days since I last ate. Any energy that small portion of food had given has long since been depleted. It’s been six hours since I last had a sip of filthy water. My canteen is now empty, hanging on my side, slamming against my thigh as we run. My body feels like it’s about to give up, but I know that if I stop moving, I will die, just as surely as those who had already collapsed behind us. Even the other refugees didn’t stop to help those that had fallen. They knew that doing so was a death sentence.
As we move through the scraggly trees, occasionally I can hear gunshots behind me, sounding like too-close thunder. The ground beneath me is rumbling as hundreds of feet try to outrun the slaughter. My heartbeat is in my throat. My camera is beating against my chest. There is no time, but I stop and spin, quickly pointing my camera towards the fearful faces running towards me, trucks holding men with guns in the distance. The shutter goes off and I capture the moment. The camera drops against my chest again as I turn and run, hoping like hell that I'm fast enough.
Nightfall is upon us. The onslaught has ended for now. We finally put enough distance between us and the demons chasing us. One of the survivors told me in broken-English that we’re within a day’s travel to the border. Our exhausted group is attempting to rest before the final push to escape this hellhole. I can see the fatigue on their faces. I pull my camera in front of my face again and capture a photograph of a few of the villagers huddled together for warmth. There are no fires tonight. We cannot give away our location.
Morning has come. My body aches and my mind is slow. There has been no sign of the enemy at least. No gunshots in the distance, no tell-tale rumble of engines. It is quiet for now. Those of us that are left, a mere fraction of those who lived in the village, gather what little we have. There is no water nearby. There is no food. There are children crying. Their parents are gone. Their hope is gone. Nothing will ever be the same. I kneel to their level and snap a picture of their filthy, tear-streaked faces. If I survive this ordeal, I swear to God that I will never forget their pain.
We resume our journey, weak and weary, with the border tantalizingly close but still far enough to test our endurance. The sun beats down mercilessly, scorching the earth beneath our feet. The landscape around us is barren, devoid of any signs of life. The children cling to my side, their tiny hands grasping my shirt as if I hold the key to their salvation. I can feel their desperation, their longing for safety and solace.
As we trudge forward, the weight of the camera around my neck becomes heavier, reminding me of my purpose. I am here to document their suffering, their resilience, and the atrocities they have endured. It is a burden I carry willingly, knowing that these images will serve as a testimony to the world, a plea for help that cannot be ignored.
Hours turn into an eternity as we press on, our pace slowing with each passing step. The sun begins its descent, casting an orange glow across the horizon. Anxiety gnaws at my gut, mingling with hunger and exhaustion. We are running out of time, and with every passing moment, the enemy could close in on us once again.
Just when it seems like we cannot take another step, we hear a distant rumble. Hope flickers in our hearts as we realize it is not the roar of an approaching enemy, but the sound of an engine. A rescue convoy. Tears of relief stream down our faces as the vehicles come into view, their presence a symbol of salvation.
With renewed strength, we quicken our pace, stumbling forward until we reach the safety of the convoy. We are greeted by aid workers and soldiers who offer food, water, and medical assistance. The children are whisked away, cradled in caring arms, while the adults collapse in exhaustion.
I lower my camera, feeling a mixture of relief and sorrow. The war-torn village, the suffering, the fear—they are now captured within its lens, frozen in time. The world will bear witness to their pain, their struggle, and their indomitable spirit. But it is bittersweet, for the price paid for these photographs is immeasurable.
As the convoy transports us to a refugee camp, I vow to never forget the faces I captured, the stories they told without words. Their images will remain etched in my memory, a constant reminder of the horrors of war and the resilience of the human spirit. I will continue to use my camera as a weapon, fighting the apathy and indifference that plague our world, until every voice is heard, until every suffering soul finds solace and justice.
In the end, this job transformed me. It taught me the true power of an image, the responsibility that comes with bearing witness, and the importance of raising awareness and inspiring action. And as I continue my journey, I carry the stories of the war-torn village, the voices of the oppressed, and the hope of a better future in my heart.
Art by
Alchemy using NightCafe.
Pet Treasure
Camera