The planet was a beautiful, glowing orb like those of the Chandelrakras. It ran like a well-tuned clock whose dusky mahogany beauty concealed the intricate machinations of a genius. The rich variety of flora illuminated the beautiful landscapes. There was much to admire and it all surpassed any combination of the Sacreblanch tops, the sweet blue Aquidra, and the hilly Lefrange.
The fresh break of day crackled in the moist air. In the well-kept cities, a thousand alarm clocks went off and were shut off. A tea kettle boiled, the clanking of dishes was heard, and cars started their engines - sounds more beautiful than the bells of Synphonique. The clock towers pealed throughout each city signaling the dawn of a new day.
The markets sold jewels the size of refrigerators and appliances the size of microflagellates. Music fell like the fatal drops of Hibiscae falling into the ashes - sometimes loud and low while other times high and clear. Money clinked and moved every which way. The sun glared off the gaudy glass displays so that pure white light was reflected. Time was sold in compact, portable clocks that gleamed the color of gold.
A soft gust of wind tossed the pieces of debris into a whirlwind waltz. The clock towers struck noon. Wind chimes added their own part to the clanging of the bells causing a musical polyphony that was strange but melodious. The chimes themselves were like a song. Beautifully crafted so not even the Knor blacksmiths could have done better.
The delicious aromas in the afternoon air tingled with the expectancy of something ephemeral. Nothing so tangible as blunturods but not as mysterious as a phloshado. The bakeries, coffee shops, other such franchises were all open. A bell was heard as the door opened - a light scattering of glass that twinkled and teased while producing soft vibrant sounds that were almost like colors. The smell of fresh dough came forward charmingly like a delightful yet nostalgic shaldan. The glass panels were as cool to the touch as the bread was warm.
No cheese from the farms of Makdounald could have possibly compared to the variety found here. There was the sweet, drunken taste of Camembert, the floury, puffs of Brie, the rough salty taste of blue cheese ... They felt smooth and oily to the touch, not firm and crusty like Makdounald's Montrary Snips. The cheese had no scent but it tickled and teased all the same. Similarly, the dark, evening sky had distant stars that twinkled and teased the viewer with the promise of knowledge in its one eye.
Although the planet ran like clockwork to the point of perfection, the money didn't go anywhere - nor did the cheese. Besides the rings, dings, pops, and cracks, there was the occasional whisper of some forgotten city. Voices drifted by singing their past in little snatches that were not real. The cold brush of something that could not have possibly been there, a shadow in a crevice, the hint of perfume nearby, something that eluded me and the city. This was something that the eye couldn't see, the ear couldn't hear, the nose couldn't smell, the hand couldn't touch and the tongue couldn't taste. It laid there like a cold piece of quivefort- an old emotion.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.