The Sand's Belly

[fluo]

As told by Gloom

It started with the grit of sand that would not move from underneath the hoof. Like an embedded festering sore, it spread mentally, irritating with its gentle but persistent insistence to inconvenience. And when it was finally gnawed out, the being spit it out menacingly and triumphantly against the cold hard clay, kicking up water in fast tiny waves. But sure as the next breath, victory was short lived. The next cycle found a bit in the being's eyes. Suffocation via eyelashes and closed orbs did not ameliorate the cluster fuck that was the being's life. And so it continued, this futile display of pettiness and stubbornness between the being and the sun who sent the grains of sand. Until one day the sand built a beach. But the beach needed protection so scraggly sticks were foraged and placed together in semblance of an underwater root system that also provided for a barrier.

But that damn itch would not stop. As sure as the cycles, the tiny grits of sand would come back, an unwelcome gift if there ever was any. Discontent was a mouthy feel in the being's mouth. They had built an island that supported itself and bees worked tirelessly to create hives that became heavy with honey. And when ripe, another grit would be sent their way to dislodge the swollen belly hives and down the angry swarm's home would crash, littering the sand with honey as it rolled into the water to improve the barriers. The water grew sweeter, and the tiny beasts fat on the sweet nectar from the sky.

Another cycle, another day, and the sun was unrelenting in its doling out is punishment. Beasts grew larger than their predecessors and their interactions proved a nice, necessary distraction from the being's constant pain. The being named them by their territory each group claimed. And whether from boredom or a therefore undiagnosed or discerned feeling of pride, the being helped them flourish with all the flotsam and jetsam truly befitting of the being's new kingdom. But they were so tiny and not very hardy at all. Soon they disappointed the being in how easily they died and all in all, the being called it a wash and created quicksand. The sand parted and swallowed up the beings hole and did not even bother to spit out bones should they be remembered. It was better if no one knew about that time period.

More sand, more creatures, and more quicksand until the being got it just right. With all the right moves and a dash of extra magic, horned beings made from leftover carcasses rose from the depths and they worked. They were nice, they moved swiftly and most importantly, they were entertaining. Even better, the beehives were rooted to stronger trees that had grown mighty and now provided shade for the beach that was much more and bigger still. Fat with the bones of the bygone eras, the beach became a swamp of murky tones and tawny greens that were pleasing to the eye. Satisfied, the being marveled at the work. Upon a foundation of bones, the landscape was finally just right and full of foul, honeyed secrets.