With a whoosh and a scraping on plastic, the mug crashed and bang down on the table, the sharpener disappearing inside. We heard a following yelp of surprise, talons skittling to the other side. 2/3 #StorySpore
A small wisp of blue flame came from under the upturned mug, the tables wood darkens so slightly where the flicker had been. Raising it gently I wedge the pencil sharpener under one edge. 1/3 #StorySpore
Once more I raise the mug, slowly pushing the eraser to where it will once more hold it aloft. hoping to free what ever is in side this ceramic cage. We wait silently, wondering if this time we will gain its trust. 3/3 #StorySpore
I hung there laid close to her bosom feeling constrained and strangely ridged, cool metal hugged me tightly as I swayed up and down in time with each breath. A glance by a mirror confirmed my suspicions, id been imprisoned as faceted glass. #StorySpore
The wasteland formed around the time it was discovered we could harvest the memories of the deceased. Junkers making ramshackle boarders keeping the Zombos out. Those so poor they sold their memories while still alive, the extraction process leaving them barely able to survive.
Only a few people attempted to free themselves, many lulled into peace by the memories. Those that escape opting to live off grid, trading in secret out in the wilds. Black markets and Fey festivals trying to draw them in.
Its a far off land, one where night never seems to get. They welcome adventures with open arms, convincing them to tell stories of the darkness. Midnight skinny dipping, lone walks down dark alleys, fireflys at dusk, last train home, reading books by flickering candle light…..