I gently hand over the tattered remains of my journal, worn from years of use and abuse, stained with countless tears and drops of blood, fringed with frail stitches holding together its broken spine.
The clerks eyes go wide, their willowy fingers trace the twisted cord holding it together.
"Are you...quite sure?" They ask, eyes fixed on the tears dripping onto the counter.
I nod slowly.
"I'd like...a soul please," I whisper hesitantly, wiping my face with my sleeve.
"This one is broken"
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RandomA bundle of blurbs. (from my pinterest comments) Vote for which to expand into full stories
