The First Brushstroke

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a piece of prose I wrote one morning on the bus. It's a fairly simple piece of work. It follows a goddess as she designs a planet. But her impatience ultimately gets the better of her.

Submitted: March 27, 2007

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Submitted: March 27, 2007

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Photons scream to crisp crescendo,
Flare erupts on edge of disc.
The planet swings in front of star,
its brilliance shrouded - first ecclipse.

A surface smooth, devoid of life,
a sphere of dust and rock and stone.
No heartbeat thuds in deep succession,
no living thing calls this place home.

But overhead, and all around,
and deep within each grain of sand
lives potency, lives perfection, lives consciousness -
life is planned.

The canvas blank, the brush lays wet,
awaiting holy intonation.
To craft a world, to paint terrain
to forge initial generation

Ten million years go wheeling by
as conscious plots configuration.
Scale of sea or plume of air?
For this eternal orchestration.

Ten million more steal by succinctly,
the canvas looming broad and dark
The architect is sketching wildly -
her drawing board remaining stark.

Sky of blue, or sky of grey -
Need there be a sky at all?
Inspiration drawn from past
To sculpt and form this lonesome ball

But failure compounds failure
as impatience takes command.
Bright lava oozes from the cracks,
consumes the untouched land.

And with a clap of light and sound and divine intervention,
The conscious rends her world undone...
as was her prime intention.



07/03/2007


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