They had promised her a planet: one warm, white planet that she could build however she pleased. The air was clean and the land was fertile. She could cultivate it, if she wanted to. They'd been watching her for some time and took note of how often she paused on one of her walks to look with envy at a neighbor's well-manicured garden. She could trade all this – here they motioned with their long graceless arms to mean her current situation – she could trade it all for a new life. She could have six seasons, extinct animals reconstructed, her favorite music infused into the air. Anything.
That had been a week ago; now she stood on the slick surface in disbelief. She was unsure where to start. She knew they were watching, and she had to resist the urge to cry.
"You're just adjusting," one of their voices said, slipping through the air. "But there's no rush. Try something small."
She nodded. She murmured, "Maybe a lawn, then." It sprouted from the white surface, richly green. "And a small house. A one-bedroom house." When it appeared, it unfolded from the ground, creaking and stretching as if it had been there for ages just waiting to be called on. She went inside. It smelled of lemon, but both the short metal refrigerator and the cabinets lining the nearest wall were bare. In the middle of the house was a bed made up in gray linens. She'd take a nap, she decided, and then start figuring things out. This life, like the last one, would take some time to get used to.
Fiction Friday is an outlet for experimentation while I slowly work on becoming a novelist. Read the read of the stories here...