Ghostwriter

an island colony, the sunshine beating down oppressively on the pavement and the starched linen suits, the streetlights and signage flooding the night, except in the twisting alleyways. long ago this place had its own culture, its own myths and gods, but now it has candy-colored vehicles and international banking. two tourists, one chasing the other. they're the type you don't want to take your eyes off of — if you ever even wanted to.

Okay.

I wrote some basic confines for the nickel. By your description, we're in sort of similar physical universes, so I've set the dimensional constraints and laws of physics to that of mine. This is a small planet which hasn't aged well; collided with a large asteroid while sentients were just getting a foothold. The main species is comprised of carbon, large soft-armored tripedal beings with a dozen apposable tentacles for control over its environment. It thrived through its dexterity and intelligence. They have heads with so much variation in shape that you can identify each one with a glance, no hassle.

The most important item in the world is a cardboard box.

Right. That's where the problems truly started.

Civilization had always been scattered since the world-changing asteroid; tectonic plates in constant war with each other, rivers and oceans appearing and disappearing, cities crushed by earthquakes weekly. The solution to so many problems became a cardboard box, which...

Hum.

Let's backtrack.

The Box is something which this species considers 'supernatural'. As the orbiting moon shines into its worn interior, objects from places far and wide slowly collect. This is the source of the civilization's technology, and they developed the talent for disassembling quicker than actual research. When cardboard shows up in the Box, they build another. They don't know where this power comes from; they rationalize it. Remember:

long ago this place had its own culture, its own myths and gods...

...but, so suddenly, it did not.

They have spent the equivalent of ninety-three thousand growths building civilization and having it crash down. At current date, their worship of the Box has ceased, and now wide swaths of the ocean hold great cardboard vessels which generate bounties untold. But this has not made a bountiful society-- it has made a divided one, a confusing one, one that is a mess which once represented something and now lacks any definitive form. A small island which should not have held much commotion is inhabited with high-rises and bustle.

Locomotives running on any kind of fuel they can find swerve down the five city blocks which make up Hevria, this island nation. They twinkle in the hot nightlight and careen past patches of pavement and wandering members of society. Our two characters are going between the populated streets. They stand taller than the rest; one is clothed in a brilliant blue, with a hat from another nation. The other chases after, with clothes which have been drained of all color.

...

They need names and a purpose. They are the microcosm which will fill out the world. By giving the smallest details description, we give the largest details purpose.

As an aside, how are your days going?