Genesis Falls by Aspen Rukh

In the depths of a rocky canyon lies a small and twisted valley. There was a flood here once. It had been empty since. As the decades passed, the water had drained little by little, millimeter by millimeter, blade of grass by blade of grass. An island had risen from the watery graves.  Long years under the fish-infested waters had given it more than enough sustenance to sprout strips of sward and tall hollow trees from its barren soil. It was a strange island.  An eerie aura created a bubble around the island. As the island grows bigger with drops of drained water, the indiscernible bubble expands as well. Animals had appeared on its shores. Small ones at first; little claws scurried from roots up to the canopies. Then squeaks turned into grunts and grunts turned into barks. It was phenomenal. It would be an understatement to say that it was the ‘Work of God’. It was the Bubble. It had other names by then. The Bubble. The Wall. The Being. A storm came through once. It was a violent one. Fear rooted herself in all of their hearts and minds. Some tried to fly away. Some tried to brave the seas. They couldn’t leave.  Many died in those attempts. The morning waves had calmly lapped against those withered bodies. The island was untouched. As decades passed, the Bubble’s ominous existence became comforting to many. The stories of it were passed from the old to the young. The way it had let in soft rain and warded off lightning.

The way it had taught the trees to fan out their leaves when the sun was too harsh and to let those leaves fall when the sun hides behind the clouds. After the First Storm, less tried to escape, instead more came forth to the Edges of the land to watch the Outside. The Outside is a strange place. The creatures passed the Bubble from the Outside always pass so fleetingly. They never looked inside. They never even touched the Bubble. It was almost as if the Bubble didn’t exist. Like the Island didn’t exist. But that was impossible. It would be irrational for anyone to think that. But some did. The minority always existed. The Wyrd was a word and a teaching way to be used as a guiding tool for younger souls. There were those who thought they could escape the Wyrd: their destiny and fate. There were a predominance of what one could say were normal deaths; those who succumbed to others’ starvation or if luck is on their sides, old age. But there were those who died halfway and became stuck at that phase of half-life-half-death. They became the Metamorphs. The Metamorphs were emaciated creatures, deformed rapidly beyond what was even probable within such a short time, let alone survive and witness. The normal creatures had whispered fervently to one another, through air and mind, that it must be their will. They must be desperate. But did they realize what they did to their bodies? Their hosts? What originally were friendly herd creatures turned against one another, quickly gaining notoriety for their strange behaviors. Eventually their existence slid into obscurity, they were everywhere.

Most were harmless, tossing themselves against trees or filling their lungs with water. The bodies littered the island and stank of pus and decay. A few of the ones that were still normal took up the task to clean the island. Some of those few never came back. Many thought the Metamorphs were contagious; the fumes, the smell, the pus, and their purple skin. It is said to the young’uns that a touch or breath of any of them will promise a long farewell. When many of the cleaners came crawling back with their eyes wide and rolling to the backs of their skulls, it did nothing to dispute that myth. What was once voluntary work turned to forced commands. Cleaners were kicked out, mostly the weakest of the kin. The rest of the living shrank into their corners and burrows. Fear was contagious. Whispers and rumors turned to truths in all sane minds. They fell apart at their seams, first their stringy minds stirred into stew, then their Wyrds torn apart in trembling darkness. Some worked slowly; shivering gasps and only alive by the puffs of mist emitted from their faces. Others came in frenzy; shuddering caterwauls that sent their limbs buckling to the ground. Those who managed to stand afterwards are only empty husks of what they once were. Where ever they look, they will only see that anything that can breathe suffered the same. Slow or fast, the end is all the same. The end was waiting for them.  The end was patient. The sun from the Outside seemed to slow into a wavering illusion of a frozen sunset. It was attractive. It was beautiful even. Fears were forgotten when all the living gathered. The sun flickered in its fragile facade. Even as the water lapped up to their elbows and knees, hundreds of pairs of eyes looked silently at the sun. Even as the water lapped over their chins and into their maws, their eyes stayed ever so steady.  They were still there when the Bubble trembled and the great palms fell into the grounds, drowned by the seawater. They became statues at the shallows and later in the depths of the darkness, eyes turned ever so lovingly at the golden moon. The Bubble shrank to the last bits of sand and stone, before sinking itself into the aqua depths.  In the depths of a rocky canyon lies a small and twisted valley. There was a flood here once. It had been empty since.

Featured Image- A mysterious canyon hung with golden bubbles Courtesy of Aspen Rukh (10)