The greys once had a beauty in their very variety, but they were still dead. They had no scent, no breath, no life force to sustain the hungry. They clung like damp mist, and choked like fine dust that collected a little at a time when he turned his back and lost himself. They colored all the world and its people. They hung in the sky in the winter time like spirit lies. They made him forget the song that was playing in his heart the day he was born and he could not allow that.

On the first day, the Day of the Moon, he gathered the emerald from the scales of snakes and the sapphire from the mighty Aegean and created green, created blue. He painted an expanse of green that rolled on for miles -- a brook as blue as Phoebe's eyes. He painted the brook's voice with the laughter of sparrows and the soft of the grass with peach skins.

On the second day, the Day of Tears, he gathered the strength of fire ants and the courage of the innocent and used it to paint the barks and the boughs of the trees standing tall in the glade. He gave them the wisdom of stones and the eyes of the eagles with which to stand sentinel.

On the third day, the Day of the Wind, he painted the planets out of ground scarab's wings, which made them sparkle, and dragon's fire which made them ageless. He used his brush to tap out the stars in pearl and the Milky Way in cobwebs.

On the fourth day, the Day of Change, he painted aster flowers growing in the grass with pigment drawn from the footprints of fairies and the dreams of oysters just before they create their pearls. They smelled of peace and pure intentions, and filled the air with their sleepy, liquid fragrance.

On the fifth day, the Day of Knowledge, he grew lonely, and used the aster flowers of the day before to give breath to a creature of great beauty. He painted her hair with the silk of butterfly wings, and painted nine dew drops in it to make it shine in the sun. He painted her lips with the blood of poppies and her hands with the wings of doves. He seated her in the meadow, and in her left hand he placed a parasol to preserve her delicate features from the talons of the jealous sun so she could forever laugh in the face of time.

On the sixth day, the Day of the Circle, he painted his own image into the middle of his living creation. He painted his face with the understanding of the owl, and his heart with the patience of the crane. As he painted his own image, he began to disappear from the world of the greys and their smothering dusts one thought at a time. At last when his work was complete, he sat down in the meadow beside the woman made of aster flowers, and he knew safety when she shared the shade of her parasol with him.

On the seventh day, the Day of the Sun, he found he had regained memory of his origins, and he knew the sound of his voice again. He could once again recall the songs he had forgotten upon being born into the grey, because they were of a language that can only be sung in a world of swift and laughing color by one who has discovered he has the power to become his own god.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...