Setting the scene…
Interactive story
Scorched Earth
Last Cigarette Under The Rock He was the last of forty-four. Educated killers in clean boots. The best, they said, then broke. Forty-three went into stone. Into fluorescent burrows, teeth bared. They fought until numbers meant…
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Previously
…The coin toss. A drunkard’s game. One gets the burden of memory, the other gets the oblivion of the blast. I’d taken the tags, the letters, the names. The weight of forty-three ghosts. And now, this. This suffocating, damp, peeling room. I stood, the floorboards groaning under my weight. The bleeds were spreading, reaching for the center of the room. A map of some subterranean ocean, perhaps. Or a map of my own unraveling. I needed another drink. And then, maybe, I’d try to burn something else. Something more substantial than a memory. Something that wouldn’t just bleed when I touched it. I needed to find the star. Even if it meant being consumed.