As is the Nature of Worlds
A Submission to the "Microfiction Magic" Challenge
Worlds are pleasing to create. Once assigned a world, an Architect uses pure essence to create their design. An essence purer than any celestial in the verse.
Architects mustn't stay. As is the nature of things, they leave their creation. This world spins, grows. It's beings blossom.
Then the Shepherd arrives, watching over the created. Guiding and nurturing these beings. A teacher.
Somber, when the shepherd leaves. This weeping construct makes a choice. Do they ascend? Or, do they fall. Fall in deafened screams to those above, watching another world consume itself. As is the nature of things.
About the Creator
J.D. Brooks
Writer of Horror, Sci Fi, Fantasy and Fiction
Probably has an opinion on everything
- Check out my ebook on Amazon! "Tales of Frights and Fears" https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09K3XH1KP
- Linktree! https://linktr.ee/j.d.brooks
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from J.D. Brooks and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Memoirs in the Sand
A man stands near a palm tree. He looks out across the ocean. Behind him resorts spread out with only the sand to hold back the encroaching cement. The man fumbles with a hair tie in his hand. Red with spots of white, the hair tie feels worn in his hand. The constant kneading taking its toll. The man sighs and pockets the hair tie.
By J.D. Brooksabout a year ago in Fiction
181 Keeping Watch
Each day she watched through her window. Watched? Perhaps an exaggeration: a monochromatic nuclear aftermath remaining of the world, blurring into a blindness--loss of contrast and depth of field. Achromatic aberrations displayed a waste-scape stratified in grays.
By Gerard DiLeo3 days ago in Fiction
Jumping the Bonfire
"It's wet again, isn't it?" "Ah, it is that," Garett responded. "It is worrying, for the crops." Old Joe continued to chew on his piece of straw, rain dripping from his hat, and gazing off into the distance. Garett unloaded sacks of grain off his cart for which he'd traded in the town. As miller, he was responsible for providing flour for the village but it was proving hard. Their crop yield was weak this past year and with the wet threatening to lessen it again this year, people were worried. How could they feed their families if this continued?
By Rachel Deeming6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.