I couldn’t do it. I was supposed to be working on my novel, Plain Jane, but Rachel was crying and Jane had said the wrong thing again and their mother is most likely about to enter the story as the only concrete bad guy and I just couldn’t do it. So I wrote this instead. Enjoy!
Once upon a time there was a beginning. It was such a beautiful beginning the sun was ashamed to rise, the conductor embarrassed to grip his baton, the runner stunned at the starting line.
This beginning, like all beginnings, was birthed in tears and sweat and pain. It came into the world under protest, fighting its maker all the way. Beginnings hate to stand in the daylight. They don’t like being seen, would much rather stay in the shadows, in the dark places of the subconscious, seen but unseen.
And like all beginnings, this beginning was but a shade of what it would become. No beginning is perfect on the outset. They require time, pruning and love. A beginning without care is a sad little thing, barely a blip in the world’s mind. A beginning nurtured with love might have a chance to make a name, but a great beginning, brought up with love and care, has the potential to rock the world down to its foundations.
The maker was such a man with love in his heart and a determination to make something of his beginning. Though its birth had startled the world, he hid it away, letting it grow in private. He polished it, removing stray bits, rubbing away the rough edges. He fed it on imagination and gave it only tears to drink. In secret, it grew strong and mighty.
Then, at last, it was time. The maker brought his beginning from where he’d kept it hidden for so long, set it on the world’s stage, drew back the curtain and truly, the world was amazed. The grandeur of this beginning so startled the greats and smalls alike that the nations have never been the same since.
This is not that beginning.