Winner
Stories Told in the Gobi Desert
St. Joseph’s College, Alvin Yu, Fiction: Group 4
“…That each [life] affects the other and the other affects the next, and the world is full of stories,
but the stories are all one.”
-Mitch Albom
The man trekked through the rocky wilderness of the Gobi desert on camelback. He was on
his own – on his back there was a simple rucksack, housing his daily necessities. The man had
one hand on the reins, and one hand on a camera; a bag was diagonally slung across his body,
filled with all sorts of lenses specialized for different views and objects.
The man was a photographer.
Not just any other photographer, however. Some acknowledged him as the world-renowned
Pulitzer Prize winner, while some detested him as the cold blooded man who photographed the
instant before a lion pounced on an unwitting hunter in Africa: the same shot that earned him
the Prize.
He had been in self-exile ever since, travelling to faraway, distant locations on a constant
basis. The true reason for his exile was never clear, though speculations stated that he was
suffering from depression.
The photographer reined his camel to a stop. The sun had almost ended its journey towards the
west, emitting a brilliant shade of crimson over the land. The photographer smiled at the scene,
positioning his camera for the shot. Almost instantly, the memories began to flood in: how he had
gone to Africa to report on wildlife trafficking. How he had witnessed the lion creeping up on the
hunter. How the hunter had stared at him, unwary of his own imminent doom…
His smile started to wane, his hands, made steady through years of photographing, starting
to experience faint tremors. I cannot do it, thought the photographer. I cannot bring myself to
take another photo. Taking photos would remind him of the indifference of human life he had
displayed when taking the photo. Even with the cloth covering his face, the photographer emitted
remorse and pain. He stuffed the camera into his pouch, intent on ignoring the scene of the sun
setting over the Gobi.
Then he stopped. In the lone distance, with rocks and weeds stretching across the landscape,
he saw a lone figure sitting on the ground, beside him a tent and a burning fire. The photographer
tugged gently on the reins of his camel to spur him towards the figure.
The sitting man addressed the photographer while looking at the sun. “It’s sometimes
overwhelming to comprehend that a thousand years ago, the vast army of Genghis Khan
witnessed the same sunset when it crossed the Gobi. Some things never change, eh?” The man
turned to look at the photographer. He man was a middle-aged Caucasian, adorned in the same
attire as the photographer. His weathered face resembled that of a grandfatherly figure, and when
he spoke, his eyes twinkled with understanding.
“Call me Aaron.” The man beckoned the photographer to sit, patting the ground next to him.
After hours and hours of riding, the photographer was grateful to sit on solid ground. Aaron
stoked the fire by pulling out weeds around him and feeding them to the fire. “I see you’re a
photographer, young man. What brings you to this remote wilderness?”
The photographer untied the cloth around his face, revealing the chiselled, strong features
