This is a story I wrote on the first day of school this year... I didn't really have a plan for this when I wrote it. I just started describing a dead planet, and then the end suddenly rushed into a random-yet-not-that-exciting-and-possibly-predictable ending. The random-yet-not-that-exciting-and-possibly-predictable component to the ending doesn't especially bother me, because this wasn't supposed to be exciting and surprising. I just like describing things.

There is no dirt.

No dust.

No sand.

The land is a sponge, scarred and barren and scraped. Scorches and smudges whine with lonely emptiness. Everything is tinged a sickly murky green, in the echo of a vast swamp. A jungle has sunk deep into the planet and squeezed, peeling vast layers of bedrock down to a core of porous marrow.

Soapy trails of liquid throttle shallow valleys. Mosses swarm the acidic banks, whispering with a slight bioluminescence. The blue tips are one of few pinpricks of light in this world of shadow. Smooth, hard stones are rare, but large and broad upon discovery. Disks of granite cluster on higher ground, withstanding the gripping tongues of moss.

The world is dark. A slight white glow hazes on all horizons, and the sky is littered with stars. Dark gasses shadow celestial bodies, reflecting empty color onto the dying planet. At the poles of the spongy wasteland magnetic light displays thrash fluidly, blazing white halos with the barest hint of other colors dripping down.

Lightning is frequent. Violent, dark, and insatiable, it rips across the small world, to no response. Thunder resonates, but these harsh storms do not hold rain. Rain does not fall from the sky.

The sky holds no water.

Fogs and drizzles issue from the ground, hissing slightly. The already murky air is clogged with a heavy steam – the breathing of the planet. The atmosphere is no longer structured to bear such vapor. The pregnant clouds hover low, only to sink back upon the surface, leaving a debt of dew and wet to soak into the soil.

This meager cycle of water is only enough for the moss.

Beneath the sponge-rock, the soil is slick and moist and thick. It remembers life. It remembers to be life. Kept perpetually damp and rich by the spongy upper layer, it is ready to sustain life. It awaits its chance.

Within that layer is a trove of fossils. Myths of what once was. A legacy of huge creatures and small creatures and fast creatures and odd creatures and creatures that thought. Soaring birds with scales and frills and armored lizards with barbed tails and sleek fish and crusted mollusks – they tell a tale of a living planet, one with oxygen and rain and plants, shrubs, trees.

But that is not this world. This world is a pit of slime and moss and lightning and everything is dark.

The soil does not care. It wants to feel air once more. It wants to grow. It wants to watch the world evolve. But there must be life. There must be a starting point. Right now, the transforming of this world is handed to the moss. Perhaps all the moss will do is make more moss. But with moss comes oxygen and with oxygen comes change.

And growth.

And life.

And then more plants.

Until finally from an amoeba comes an elephant and the world struggles on. Empires rise and fall. Histories are made. Explanations. Science. All chemistry and biology and physics – so frustratingly repetitive of what has already been done but cannot be found. There are new histories and new elements and new laws and new creatures.

They hunt, cook, eat. Laugh, talk, sing. Exist.

And none of them would have any inkling of the girl curled up in her beanbag, back when Earth was Earth, millions of billions of trillions of years before, writing it all.

So there you go! Not especially witty, and kind of rushed. Please review! Negative criticism is fine, but please be nice!