Storygram #136
Our forests are nothing more than silent wastelands. They were once alive with animals that scurried over the ground and birds that sang proudly of their treetop views. Now, the trees are rotted, victims of some unknown plague.
Storygram #129
She tossed dirt onto the embers of her campfire and took in the mountain view from her bluff. Such beauty could only reside in the vast landscapes she often hunted through. The human heart was too small to contain beautiful things.
Storygram #123
Slave. That’s what I am now. No one calls us that, of course. Even the lowest scum of humanity hesitate to say they own slaves. So, we are prisoners, or the more proper term to use would be “Essentials.”
Storygram #117
A man with a half shaved head and no shirt removes my handcuffs. He slaps into my hand a metal tube that comes to a needle turned at a right angle at the end. There is only one button.
Storygram #116
She was envious of the life here. It would be so easy for her to accept an invitation to become part of this location, part of this peace. She would be happy as one of the trees or even just a flower by the river’s edge, but it would never be.