... of H. G. Worthington

A swan, mechanical, set with sapphires, floats in a pool of liquid; not water; oily, luminescent, golden.

Pale plantlike hues surrounding, ochres and pale blues and greens, though nothing chlorophyllian.

A girl sits, dips her toes.

The swan bobbing, preens itself, whirs.

Whirls, eddies.

It is warm here, no noise save the gentle clinking of the mechanics and the lapping at the edges.

There is a breeze, hotter still.

The sun fills the sky, sharply illuminates, throwing unfeasably black shadows.

With a thought the girl could hide the sun, destroy the light.

Silence to white noise, serenity to chaos.

She could bring life.

All matter attached to her consciousness.

Invisible threads to a puppeteer.

The swan still preening, the girl idly watching, the ripples merging with perfect predictable synchronicity.

Freed from the constraints of intention, from analysis and expectation, with absolute control comes absolute loss of context; creation itself no more than rearrangement; the impact merely the impression of that which lies beyond one's own design.

The silence is interrupted, no warning, no sentient entity to warn.

Nothing what it was, yet still it may return.