Once upon a time, a town that sat nestled near the foot of a mountain, surrounded by forest evergreen, ran out of food and fuel in the midst of a deadly winter. They were not poor, the people of this town. They were not foolish with their provisions. The winter had just lasted far longer than any in the realm had expected. Every season of that year was winter. Many perished.
All the amoeba ever wanted was to be more than what she was. To be more than one. To be many. Many as one. To be multicellular.
After death, some souls go to reward and some to punishment. Then there are the ones who just need to do some “community service” to atone for minor wrongs. The length and manner of service depends on the offense. The service is some task, usually tedious, that must be performed in the maintenance of the cosmos. Some service has nothing to do with the world of the living. Some service has everything to do with the world of the living.
They’re a lot like us. The Promethians. That’s not what they call themselves, but I could never really pronounce (or spell) the proper word, so I call them the Promethians. And others started calling them that too. Because after all, they gave us fire.