Storygram #125
There are some spaces that you just remember. Your experience within them was so intense that you can recall the smells, sounds, and every detail you saw, right down to a misplaced string of fabric in the seat where you were sitting.
Storygram #124
As Mike was lining up for his next shot, two government officers walked into the bar. They wore helmets with black tinted visors where only their chins and mouths remained visible. Mike froze.
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 #122
The river floated along its course in silence, oblivious to the panic its emptiness was filling her with. The bridge offered her the best vantage point for viewing the deck of any passing vessel. But as far out as she could see, nothing disturbed the water—not even the ship she hoped would appear around the bend.
Storygram #121
Dyrin held the bag in his hand, thinking about the horse he had seen at the stables the other day. His mind made up, he clenched the bag and shoved it into his pocket. The iron gate to the tunnel creaked and scraped on its hinges, as he opened it.