Celestial Seas Writing Prompts

Wrong.

It was all wrong.

Silas was cursed, but not in the way one would think. Cursed to see all the imperfections in the world, and shudder at how out of place, how irritating, how foul they were. How much it bothered him, how little he could resist the urge to fix them. Nothing was beautiful here, not on this planet. Not in the place where all that the fog touched turned to blight and misery. But art existed for a reason-- to express oneself, to find beauty in the earth around them. To build from the tools they are given, forming something new, delightful, unique.

And that is precisely what he would do. He would create. 

Silas took these miserable things, these ugly, misshapen creatures that had practically been discarded by their original creator for their unattractiveness, and makes them his.

The creatures that appeared in his garden, wandering around his home, surely, were looking for a new life. After all, did one not want to live with the utmost performance and magnificence they could? What use were they, fumbling around in their raw form, when they could be much more? What was the purpose of wheat if not to be turned to bread? Of grapes to wine? That was the joy of creation. It was why he existed on this planet. He was doing all a favor, they just didn't recognize it. Not yet.

The winged animal on his table squirms, its eyes wide with trepidation. If only it knew what he was about to do, it would not be so afraid. Another creature, laid across it side by side, sits unaware in bliss. Silas frowns. The way its paws curled crudely, its ears too long for its body. Its limbs were impractical and useless. But he could fix that.

Slowly, his scalpel descends like a paintbrush to paper. The world was his canvas, and this was his art.