The Land of Lost Luggage

Photo by Dominika Roseclay on

I read an article about a place that buys the lost luggage from US airlines. They have a brick and mortar thrift store in the south. 

Part of what I found so interesting, was the strange things that showed up in the store, such as wedding dresses, emeralds, human ashes, and ancient artifacts. The list goes on. I wish I lived near this store.

Could you imagine going in weekly, just to see what they had? I bet they have a section just for the really odd stuff.

From a writer perspective, I think it would make an interesting world to set an anthology. Or at least a fun world to write stories in.

Anyone interested in doing a short story inspired by the lost luggage store?

6 thoughts on “The Land of Lost Luggage

  1. The concept can be really interesting – if you remember the series “Friday the 13th” that had a store of cursed objects, or this Richard Pryor sketch set in a gun shop:

    • Hadn’t seen that sketch before. A bit disturbing, although the guy at the beginning made whole lot more sense at the end. I missed watching Friday the 13th series which seems to have a good bit of horror. Interesting.

      The stories that popped in my head for this were more fantasy oriented. I recognize that wouldn’t necessarily make a good actual series premise. 🙂

      Thanks for sharing.

      • Maybe in the sense that the objects are the narrators?

        Fantasy objects telling their stories…cue the Black Blade of death…

        My cosmic sword goes on for eternity
        Carving out destiny
        Bringing in the lords of chaos
        Bringing up the beasts of Hades
        Sucking out the souls of heroes
        Laying waste to knights and ladies
        My master is my slave…

        But now I sit in a corner and gather dust next to an umbrella that sings “rain, rain, go away” when opened. Fool. I am a scythe of men, built to wring blood from the righteous but now I am but a long black trinket, only to be dusted and knocked over by an occasional too-fat fanny.

        Sometimes the children look at me, or the thin men with scraggly hair and eyes swirling with resentment draw near. They almost reach out, or reach out and almost touch me, but I get excited and too soon show their minds what we could accomplish together and they recoil in horror.

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