Likelihood of Grave Worlds

As I see it, here are the main factors when considering the feasibility of planet-wide graveyards:
1. The cost of space travel versus the value of terrestrial real estate
2. Future attitudes toward treatment of the dead, to wit whether dumping stiffs in space will be accepted
3. The probability of discovering the secrets of necromancy
Frankly, it's the third one that bothers me the most.

Secret of Peregrine Platform

A single tug was enough. The line shot up, up, and up, nearly the entire height of the tower to deliver the snared fish to the tower's master, Crime Sage Rykel.
"A promising trial, but you're a bit small," he told the fish as he unhooked it. He dropped it so that it fell neatly in the little pond he had created for the experiment, not out of mercy but as a demonstration of skill. "Now I need only take over the Peregrine Platform and hover it over some filled pockets."
The Peregrine Platform was one name. Every region had its term for the strange object which traveled through the sky without evident purpose. Never had anyone boarded it so far as was known, but in no previous era had Rykel lived. With consummate technique he made use of a catapult to lob a likeness of himself aboard and then used his magic. As easily as that, he and the figure swapped places.
From there he moved to take control of it, but what was it? He discovered then that what men had long seen from below was the foundation of a grand mausoleum. Reasoning the source of power likeliest lay in the center, he approached the great portal, but he was not welcome there. Curses buffeted him and were repelled by skills that were eldritch, modern, and wholly his own. He reached for the door but saw it recede before him in an impossible movement he arrested with his guard-freezing spells, and the doom of death which fell on those who dared enter the ancient tombs shattered one of his twelve statues in his tower. Hostile forces opposed every step, but for nothing. He reached the center and purified it with borrowed holy power.
"Great sage!" A ghost appeared, which was nothing unexpected. "You have freed the kings of the Sky Tombs of Ganceras from our travails! Ages ago, we were overcome by the death-wizards of Alaonir and trapped as fuel for their magic, aware but impotent. Our fury however had its own force and struck continuously their lands, and does so still. Now we are released, and we release too the Alaonir Plain."
Rykel swapped with his effigy, leaving it to take the fall from the Sky Tombs which were even then dissolving. "My purse-fishing plan, ruined! But it must have been the Ullonik Curse-Storm that he meant. If that is truly gone, a route undiscovered by security is opened to the Eight-Tiger Vault. Off I go!" The kings of Ganceras watched him and rejoiced that the world yet had such sages in it. They departed then, and what befell them is not for mortals to know, but about the Vault and that the Crime Sage failed to rob it, all men learned it later.
Finis

Awakens the Scourge

Dread Aklakoth sits in his tomb, sipping his terrible tea. Once he slew hosts and threw down nations till he tired of it, for one crown is much like another under a heavy enough foot. There he will remain till some delver in search of ancient secrets and weapons of power unseals the tomb and enters, which is unlikely, because nobody even uses swords these days. He has a bow too, but competitions will certainly ban it if some scamp shows up with that thing. And so he sits, never to stir again.
"Do you really think there's an exotic tea interred in this ancient grave?"
"No, I funded this expedition because my wallet felt heavy. Hey, somebody got in here before us!"
At last dread Aklakoth stirs.
Finis

Pity Has Its Weight

The blessed rains cleared up in time for people to continue thinking them blessed. Even that blot could be seen, as occurred on only the clearest days.
"Ah, there's the city of the saints, watching over us as always."
"You're a fool, Sidim. That's the left eye of the Dour Navigator, looking for the right, and there's isn't too much that's benevolent about it."
Nothing suited people lounging in the street better than speculating or inventing stories about the dot in the sky, and nobody imagined his words would be taken seriously. That is, until that day when a stranger walked in who looked as if he had never heard speech less serious than a priest's at a coronation.
"It's none of those things. Better for me that it was, but no. That is the Sky Tomb. Listen to what I say about it. Once, this was centuries ago I suppose, but once, there was a man who gained everything by crimes and atrocities. Even saying his name is a curse, but I am cursed all the way through already. Orsarius was it, and when he died, wealthy and powerful, the ruler of a kingdom. It subjects were glad to forget its name. Only among men is such injustice allowed. When we buried him, the earth and sky both refused his wicked tomb. Now it stays forever between them, and we laborers walk the world, telling everyone of it. Someday, I am sure, the tomb will be destroyed. Then I will be freed. I am sure."
The stranger walked on, and none dared raise any doubts about his story. Most believing of all was Rimarin, who stated years later that was the day he decided to become a hero. And you do not believe me that ever men saw the Sky Tomb above them, ask Rimarin what he did there.
Finis

The Death of Fashion

Fashion has a graveyard? They told me good fashion has an expiration date but bad fashion lives forever, but residents of Highgreen say that isn't so. The tale they tell is that a tombstone there changes its inscription without human agency to the next fad to die. Unbelievable? I went to check it out anyway, because while I don't always believe it, Calp the fashion investigator always solves it!
Highgreen has been higher and greener, according to the fellows whose hats at least looked to have been founding members of the community. A village was built atop a hill long ago, but it grew like the size of collars in the last three years so that now it covers a few hills and all the lands between. I suggested they call it Lowbrown instead after the color of the bricks used in later developments. They told me it usually took about thirty years of living there to start making that joke, and then we were friends. We exchanged the gift of knowledge, from them the location of the famous tombstone and from me some tips they swore to implement if they ever wanted to recreate a scene from the infernal depths. Sounds like a hell of a weekend to me!
I won't tell you their names because I'm the jealous type when it comes to friendship, but I will tell you about the path to the tombstone. Once it was outside of town if my information was correct. These days it's on the edge of a park where rich children walk their nannies and young men without invitations display their plumage. Bushes obscure the small tomb from common view, which increases the treasure tingles but compels me to say this here: When your old friend Calp dies, make sure everybody knows!
I brushed aside the foliage and stepped in, and there I found true horror. The name on the tombstone was "Shoes with False Toes That Make the Wearer Appear Hooved." Those are my favorite! Or they were. Anyone who tries to claim I ever liked them is in for a one, and a two, and a quick apology over my shoulder as I run as fast as I can, which will be faster without these hoof shoes. That confirmed the message, but was it from beyond? There was only one way to find out. I stayed in Highgreen for a week, reading reviewers turning against hooves and trading jaw bombs with my new friends. That was when you could see me, but I was still around when you couldn't, keeping an eye on the tombstone. A waste of time and money? My boss thought so. That the pursuit of truth is always rewarded is the only excuse I can offer.
One day I saw from my arboreal perch a man creep in with tools and intent. I watched him resurface the tombstone, take a break, eat a nice meal, read a slim volume of poetry, and start etching a new name.
"I have you now!" I yelled as I scrambled down the tree, and if you take nothing else from this article, I can tell you it was an easier task without my favorite shoes than with.
"So you have," he said, and nearly startled me all the way back up. Who was it but the legendary Mayor Tneln! I only knew him as the mayor of fashion, but it turned out he was the mayor of Highgreen as well. He had retired from the criticism racket to leave it to a younger set, but did that stop him from making a pronouncement or two from the impenetrable anonymity of a supernatural occurrence when the cat scratched his spine? Not a chance!
I can't blame him, but I sure can expose him, because I solved it again. Till next time, leave the lowest button alone. I will, and I'm Calp, the fashion investigator.
Finis

Innovative Idea Do Not Steal

A dungeon that's actually a dungeon. I'm not sure that's a good place to have adventures, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.