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Putting them down before I lose the bits of paper again. I've got to stop writing things on the back of whatever's handy. Although ... it's kinda fun to find a couple of random paragraphs months later, and wonder what the hell you were thinking. And I rather like these two.
Obsidian
They had meant it to be pristine, she thought, running her fingers down one of the slick runnels. That was what the whispering told her, the quiet murmurings of this small world. They had meant it to be an organic perfection, the smooth, gentle roll of black volcanic glass, one of the most precise and beautiful of materials. They had meant it to be perfect. And they had almost succeeded.
She lay back, nestled in one of the swirling depressions carved by the wind, laying her head against the smoothness to look out across the silent beauty of a flawed dream. The black obsidian hills rolled away from her, carved and fluted into smooth curves and startling edges, translucent and shining with the ghostlight of stars.
And drifting across them, the disease that had destroyed the dream. Carried on the quiet, hollow winds, the red dust, the iron heart of stars, drifting through eternity to descend on perfection and reclaim it for organic chaos. She smiled at the thought, knowing and faintly bitter. She understood that. There existed no perfect isolation, after all.
A/N: The theory was a kind of planetary telepathy, I think. I mean, telepaths who could hear the thoughts of planets.
Godchild
"I don't understand them, you know," she confides in me, watching them with quiet awe, and a curious uncertainty, as if she knows this is a thing that should seem sad to her, but for her part there is only wonder in it. "All at once and never more. But they're pretty when they go."
I watch them, watch the stars as they wrap themselves around each other with vibrant joy, watch as their lights enfold each other, folding into each other until they finally shatter, a brilliant, luminous explosion of joy and sorrow and infinite, dying love. They are completed in emptiness, expending all for each other, beautiful and terrible in the totality of their passion.
"Yes," I say, quietly. "They are."
A/N: And this was me taking the phrase 'star-crossed lovers' to its natural sci-fi conclusion. Mating stars. Lord, the things that go on in my head ...
Obsidian
They had meant it to be pristine, she thought, running her fingers down one of the slick runnels. That was what the whispering told her, the quiet murmurings of this small world. They had meant it to be an organic perfection, the smooth, gentle roll of black volcanic glass, one of the most precise and beautiful of materials. They had meant it to be perfect. And they had almost succeeded.
She lay back, nestled in one of the swirling depressions carved by the wind, laying her head against the smoothness to look out across the silent beauty of a flawed dream. The black obsidian hills rolled away from her, carved and fluted into smooth curves and startling edges, translucent and shining with the ghostlight of stars.
And drifting across them, the disease that had destroyed the dream. Carried on the quiet, hollow winds, the red dust, the iron heart of stars, drifting through eternity to descend on perfection and reclaim it for organic chaos. She smiled at the thought, knowing and faintly bitter. She understood that. There existed no perfect isolation, after all.
A/N: The theory was a kind of planetary telepathy, I think. I mean, telepaths who could hear the thoughts of planets.
Godchild
"I don't understand them, you know," she confides in me, watching them with quiet awe, and a curious uncertainty, as if she knows this is a thing that should seem sad to her, but for her part there is only wonder in it. "All at once and never more. But they're pretty when they go."
I watch them, watch the stars as they wrap themselves around each other with vibrant joy, watch as their lights enfold each other, folding into each other until they finally shatter, a brilliant, luminous explosion of joy and sorrow and infinite, dying love. They are completed in emptiness, expending all for each other, beautiful and terrible in the totality of their passion.
"Yes," I say, quietly. "They are."
A/N: And this was me taking the phrase 'star-crossed lovers' to its natural sci-fi conclusion. Mating stars. Lord, the things that go on in my head ...
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