The day that the easternmost division of Quarkle scribes ran out of things to write down, the weather was perfect, as usual, in the realm of Quarkopolis. Caught by surprise, the invisible beings shook the sparkling dust off their figurative feet and tentatively glanced around.
“What now, Minoeth? You’re the ‘not-so-fearless’ but ‘way smarter than any of us’ leader. Any ideas?” one of the duller scribes croaked out the words with his spine-tingling voice. He’d lost his voice when he had partially lost his light back in the day.
“Of course I have an idea. No need to reiterate that our purpose is to put sparks back into humans. You know it as well as I do. So, in light of that, here’s what we’re going to do.” Minoeth paused for effect and then went on, “We’re going to go through the zillions of historical stories in the archives, pull some out, and retell them to our human writers. We’ll put them together in some organized fashion, probably alpha order, and then distribute them to other writers for encouragement.
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