Photographer's Tent

As you enter the tent of the Photographer, you are assailed by the odors of antiquity and the acrid tang of chemicals. Rows upon rows of ancient photographs line the walls, each one a testament to the carnies' sojourns across the globe.

A feeling of dread and unease fills you as you peruse the images. The landscape photos reveal the world outside your small village, or at least that's what you think, despite the lack of travel outside your home. Despite the unsettling feelings they evoke, you cannot help but be drawn to these glimpses into the unknown.

In the corner of the tent, you spy a figure seated in a wheelchair, a tank of oxygen by its side. This is the Photographer, his voice a hoarse, muffled whisper. Though he does not presently capture images, his touch betrays the mark of a true artist.

You are grateful that your village is situated in a location of relative safety and tranquility, far from world supposedly depicted in these photos. The thought of dwelling in such places as these fills you with a sense of deep unease. You are relieved to depart the Photographer's Tent and return to the familiar comforts of home.