The Famished Plains

We had to draw random images and make a story using them. This class is visual storytelling.

The Famished Plains

The floating air station is our home away from home. Our ancestors were driven away

from their once fertile farm land. A faint glow appeared under the rich soil of a thousand years

ago. Distant land strangely grew dry and crops began dying. In the ancient scriptures it is said hat

a meditative creator would build a structure from thought and maybe a little help from

technology saving our people from certain death. The chaotic structure would stretch from the

dying land up to the heavens and away from the evil that would fall upon our land. Elders

mention that while the creator was conceiving our home he would have a guardian, the

technology angel. The open plains consisted of famished flowers, incapable from growing due to

the poor weather and constant turning of the soil from a certain desert amphibian. Within these

most famished of flowers is the perfect hiding place for the angler of darkness, which was a

demon said to have the ability to destroy crops and entire civilizations. The only way to know of

it’s presence is to look for the haunting glow of the bulb at the end of its head. This is our only

warning, and why the elders called upon the creator. Until now life remained pretty much on the

ground. When our beloved jigsaw puzzle of a structure was nearly complete the dreaded angler

emerged from the golden plain and attacked the creator. But the angel intercepted the wicked

plot and drove the demon back to the lifeless soil from which it made the terrifying ascent. The

only thing that remained of the angler was it’s lure that continues reminding us of the horrible

encounter. Due to the battle the lower portion of the structure was nearly obliterated. The angel

gave up his armor plating and set it under the structure using the strength of the heavens to give

us all support. The warrior in the angel armor walks among us today. He lives a normal life

waiting until the next time bereavement decides to transpire from it’s dark prison of dessert soil.