The Incomplete Planet

         Nine years ago, I breathed life into an empty and forgotten world. I have since regretted it.

         “It’s time to go,” a voice says to me, “You can’t stay.”

         “I know,” I answer, “I just wanted to say good bye.”

         I let my hand trail lazily through a forest stream. I dip my toes in the oceans that I had playfully designed to lap against the continents of this planet. The clouds tickle my ears, and the desert winds kiss my cheeks.

         “Maybe I will stay this time,” I whisper quietly, “Go down with the ship, as they used to say.”

         The voice laughs, but not unkindly.

         “Don’t be silly. The need you elsewhere and everywhere. You know the drill.”

         I nod. I let out a sigh that churns up hurricanes above the gulfs.

         “It just won’t be the same,” I say.

         “You always say that,” the voice replies, “But it always is.”

         “I think I just have the template wrong. There’s something missing, and if I could just find it everything would be okay.”

         “You’ll find it,” the voice reassures, “They believe in you.”

         “Yes, but for how long? How many times can I fail before I’m deemed unproductive?”

         “At least a couple of more tries.”

         “Are you being serious?”

         The voice laughs again. This time I hear a dangerous edge amidst the laughter.

         “You have a lot of power,” the voice says, as its chuckles finally subside, “You have to look at is as an investment. They’ve invested in you. If this keeps happening . . . “

         There’s a weird silence. I watch a patch of snow unhinge from a mountain and slide its way down to the valley floor. The avalanche gains speed and volume. By the time it slows to a halt, the mountain seems bare and half-naked, stripped of its lovely coat of icy splendor.

          “I tried so hard with this one,” I say rather despondently, “I thought it would work. I knew it would work.”

         “Well, no one’s perfect.”

         “But I created a perfect world!” I cry, “I perfected the tiniest details of the flower’s petals, the reflection of the sun upon the water’s surface, the silver fog on a winter’s day! It was perfect! I unleashed animals and birds and fish and humans upon my glorious manifestation and awaited the harmony that I knew should appear.”

         “And then everyone started killing each other,” the voice juts in bluntly, “And setting fires to things. And eating each other. That was gross. If anything earned you the termination notice, it was that.”

         I nodded my head in agreement. I looked out upon my beautiful and dying planet and wept.

         “Look, you love your job,” the voice continues, “Everyone sees that. You might just be caring too much, if you know what I mean. It’s like you fall in love with your creations and then take it personally when-“

         “When they kill each other and try to destroy everything I created?” I interrupt.

         “Yeah . . . “ the voice trails, “I can see your point.”

         I ponder my purpose in life. I am a failed creator with an abysmal track record. I care and love too much. I can not distance myself from my own failures. I am doomed to love what I have destroyed and fail at all I touch.

         A thought strikes me.

         “Computer!” I call out, “Is it too late to stall the termination? I want to try one more thing!”

         “You can do whatever it is next time,” the computer’s voice says, “This planet’s doomed. There’s nothing you can do. The termination team will be moving in in approximately ten minutes.”

         “That’s enough time.”

         I turn to my world, my creation. I look at the beauty and the destruction that interlaces upon the planet’s surface. The animals and the birds that are left are scared and in hiding. The few humans fight and hunt and kill.

         I take a deep breath. I fill my lungs with the same hopes and aspirations and love and care that have plagued me my entire life as a doomed creator.

         I breathe out.

         There is no immediate change, but I know better.

         “It is done,” I tell my ship’s computer, “It will work now. Call off the team.”

         “Nothing has changed!” the computer’s voice calls back shrilly, “They will still fight and kill You can’t keep holding on to this violent planet. At some point, you need to . . . “

         The voice trails off. The computer sees it, too.

         The humans are laying down their weapons. They are looking at each other with new expressions, holding each other in their arms like they never have before.

         “They will still fight,” I say softly, “They might even still kill. But not like before. It is complete now. It will work.”

         In the distance, I hear the computer calling off the termination team.

         I lay down upon hot sun-soaked plateaus, sink my feet into crispy mounds of freshly fallen snow, and let the ocean winds whip my hair around my face.

         I can feel the love that is now in this place.

         I smile to myself. I have created perfection.