@inkhorn Okay, cool! I’d love to help with yours too, so do you want to trade comments?
Okay, so for anyone that’s subscribed to the SE newsletter, recently Hope Ann sent a May Long Challenge with this picture prompt:
I wrote a little scene, and my sister loved it so much, she wants to know the rest of the story. Problem is, I don’t know the rest of the story. 😂 Thoughts on where I should go from here?
In our world, when men die, their souls go to the mirror city. The mirror city hovers directly above us, a constant reminder of the inevitability of death. We are a grim city. We are a grim people.
My father went to the mirror city when I was eleven. I remember that day very vividly. I knew that the moment he took his last breath, the Reflector would come, with his hot air balloon, to carry my father to the mirror city. Still burned into my memory is the silvery-blue robe of the Reflector as he carried the limp body of my father into the basket. I watched the balloon rise in a slow spiral, knowing I would never see my father again.
We fear the Reflector. We hate the sight of his silver balloon with its nauseating orange banners, always soaring above us, a reminder of doom, of death, of sorrow. I used to wonder, as a child, if I could ever sneak into the basket when the Reflector wasn’t looking, until I heard of some fool who really did it. The man was crazed with grief over the death of his mother, and jumped into the basket just as they were taking off. Some say that the Reflector pushed him out, some say that his lungs couldn’t handle the altitude change. Either way, he was a lost soul. Lost souls are those who take their own lives instead of waiting for the Reflector to come. Lost souls disintegrate in the mist, never to enter the mirror city.
There are no clouds in our world. When the weather is foul, a thick reflective surface obscures our view of the mirror world. We look up, and instead of seeing the city where the souls of men dwell, we see–ourselves.