It was a face.
As we neared, I began to notice the features of this face. It was sucking in the colours in like a whirlpool. The thing’s mouth was gaping, cramming every ounce of the photons into its mouth. Moreover, it was this mouth where the brightest of the lights appeared to be coming from. The combination of these colours in such an enclosed, tight area had made a white brighter than anything I had ever seen before.
We had planned to land atop of the planet but our vessel began to phase through its surface. The surface was just colours and the centre was hollow. All I could see was the face.
This was no planet.
It was fake.
However, the face; the face was real.
The surface of this planet was an orange, no not an orange but a peach, a white, a deep fiery orange too difficult to describe. Each individual colour swept around and through each other, pulling together so that they could create a tapestry, a piece of artwork too wild and uncontrollable to be contained within one small, insignificant word.
Its polished plains stretched on and on, never losing their simplistic, perfectly polished beauty. Staring at the horizon, one could witness the clash of roaring, blazing fire and cloaked, smothering black as they fought for control of the sky.
Every one of this strange planet’s whorls was pulled, each welcoming its inevitable end, into an explosion of white hovering just above the centre. As the splotch of white bloomed, each delicate tendril of peach, mandarin or soft yellow picked up its pace racing towards their end.
It was beautiful. Horrifying, yes, in the way that they ran eagerly towards their doom, but so destructively beautiful.
This wonderful, yet horrible plant’s soil was unlike any that I had ever seen before in the way that it had none. Its surface was so cleanly cut it was molten metal contained mesmerisingly by the space around it in a perfect sphere.
Its flat fields were red mixed with orange and yellow, mixed together like a campfire made solely with the purpose of roasting marshmallows, like a fireplace decked with holly-wreaths warming you on Christmas morning. Surrounded by the harsh, unforgiving abyss of space, it was safety and security with someone always there to pick you up when you fell.
It was family and friends.
It was home.
The faded orange, risen to the top, gradually became lighter as it neared the other end. Darker, more vibrant oranges and reds trapped the faded orange in a cage of brighter colours, like a wave of distorted lines and shapes, intersecting over each other as though it was a knotted string. It was a sunset so powerful it could fix your gaze and never let it go. A battlefield of oranges and reds, all fighting to be the brightest. A small disc of white, flooding the planet with light.
The heat was enough to scorch a human to death. Like a fire, but the warmth increased. Life was unsustainable on the sweltering surface of the planet.
Thin ropes were hot as fire, hot as molten rock. Explosive vines of peril and agony to touch. A cruel figure of spite and arrogance, too atrocious to verge upon. A blazing heat burst through a cold airiness to reach a warmth with enough power to burn anything in its path.