In response to: If you were a planet, what it be like? What would it look like, sound like, smell of, feel like, taste of? (from this prompt blog)
It’s a strange place, for sure, this world that has so much restlessness. There is a large range of mountains to the north that quiver now and again, tumbling piles of slate downhill as herds of deer flee. A volcano lies at the core, grumbling and groaning and occasionally spewing fire and rocks into the air before it quiets again. When it rumbles with dark clouds, shocks of bright lightning fly and crack against granite cliffs. Sometimes, if you peer into the clouds at the right moment in the early morning, you might see a red dragon curled up in the center of the lava, her translucent wings tucked against her scales.
An ocean floods the west and south, iceberg blue and so cold that a wind gusting from it makes the skin prickle with goosebumps. Overhead, the sky is a moving blanket of stratus clouds that glow pink and gold at sunrise and purple and orange at sunset. When they part, the sky glows blue with scattered stars and thick clusters of galaxies.
Pine forests lift their branches towards the constellations and whisper secrets while crows and magpies flutter, cawing to their young. The earth is soft and dark with loam and smells of the decay of last year’s leaves and leavings. Although the air feels fresh, you can still taste the ashes of old fires. Columbine, fireweed, and lupin fill sweet-smelling meadows where bees and hummingbirds buzz as they feed.
Near the center of the ocean, the water bubbles and shivers as new land begins to push itself to the surface. Dipping a hand beneath the surface, you can feel a warmth that contrasts the frigid tides crashing against coastal sands. Dark shadows of marine animals drift in the currents; at night their multitudes of eyes glow fluorescent green.
Across the ocean, more life awaits: a mudflat teems with scrabbling crabs and pockets of sea hares and mussels hidden among swathes of salt-scented mermaid’s hair. Black-tipped gulls swoop overhead, waiting for signs of their next meal.
Red dunes of sand lie to the east, continuously reshaping themselves with every gust of wind. Sometimes, the winds wear away so much of a dune that hidden things reveal themselves: a marble statue of a child, a teddy bear, dropped pens and pencils, a brown coat with brass buttons, a plane ticket dated for the first of September, and polka-dot ribbons, to name a few.
Oddly, the only building on this world is a small, weather-beaten cottage surrounded by rose-and-cream azalea bushes. A pot in the kitchen holds a spicy-smelling soup while whatever awaits in the oven strongly smells of vanilla and orange. You pick up a cup of tea that’s cooling on a counter and find that it tastes of apples and cinnamon. Bookshelves line almost every wall, filled with new and musty titles alike: fiction novels arranged to form a glossy rainbow, thick volumes of medicine and chemistry haphazardly grouped together along the lower shelves, poetry and art timidly spaced along the top. A rough, wooden box holds speed cubes, stacks of tarot cards, and stress balls next to a second box topped to the brim with worn notebooks, so full of ink and thoughts that the covers have begun to rip. Wherever you wander in the house, songs composed of drums and violins play in the background from hidden speakers, the rhythm just fast enough to encourage foot-tapping. Although you can barely hear it over the music, a creek burbles and splashes behind the house, dappled with the shadows of overhanging oak leaves.
(Cross-post from my other writing-focused blog)
Written to the Atlas: Space album by Sleeping At Last (which explains why I kinda got carried away by this prompt)
Image credit: Matheus Bertelli