The unborn exist in the place between reality and dreams. They wink into being at their appointed time and dance excitedly around the firmament awaiting their chance at life. Each shines like a small star as it anticipates that moment when a fertile womb opens to receive the gift of being.
In the beginning, The Creator set Their thumbprint on a ball of mud before breathing fire into a cloud of gases to warm Their newest toy. As life took its tentative first steps, the unborn came swarming from the place beyond – avid to share the youngness of this place – and the creatures that walked on the ball of mud loved them. There was competition for each birth, and the unborn blazed with life and vitality as the excitement of the future animated their flight. As century rolled into century there always seemed to be a mother awaiting the blessing of a child, and each spark of newness found a place in which to grow.
Satisfied that all was good The Creator turned Their eyes away from this thing They had made and sought Their entertainment elsewhere.
For many times many turns of the wheel the creatures on the ball of mud lives simple blameless lives, looking only to have enough to eat and occasionally bash their enemies on the head with wooden clubs. They were uninteresting, and The Creator’s influence bypassed that little corner of infinity, eventually waning to such an extent that The Opposite was able to stand on His own scaly feet on that insignificant ball of mud spreading knowledge and malice, and laughing as the creatures around Him lost their innocence.
Even then, The Creator were so wrapped up in more interesting species that They failed to notice how the creatures that walked on the ball of mud turned their eyes away from the skies.
Instead, they scuttled around in the dirt, digging and scrabbling and fighting among themselves. They forgot their covenant with The Creator. They forgot their responsibilities towards the planet on which they walked. And they even forgot the need to continue their own species in the selfish drive to grasp as much as possible and hold it.
For the first time since the Creator set this being into motion the unborn were unwanted. They grew pale and sickly, and in the end they began to will themselves out of existence, going from glorious and golden, to green and feeble, and eventually ceasing to be.
Called away from greater pleasures by the gnawing pain of the unborn, The Creator turned Their eyes on that which They had made and found it no longer good. They wrung Their hands in agonised indecision torn between what was right and Their avowed intent never to interfere with a created species.
In the end, the pain of the unborn persuaded The Creator that steps must be taken and they sent their own unborn as Mashiach. He put his white feet on the spinning rock and spoke of love and salvation, but the creatures listened not. He stood on the mountain they called Zahyeet and spoke of the joy of family and the care of children. But the creatures turned their faces from him, indeed some among their number threw stones at him and called him ignorant, immigrant, impious. Then they turned their backs on his fair visage and went on with their games and power plays. They stopped their ears with the wax of money and power. And they lost even further the memory of what they were intended to be. Mashiach felt such sorrow that he took himself into the desert – and where his tears fell there bloomed an oasis of such beauty that the creatures made war on each other for the ownership of that tiny strip of green. And if, somehow in their vicious struggles, the pale Mashiach died, who was to care.
The Creator watched. Their horror and revulsion was such that Their cries could be heard as thunder all about Their creation, and the one great tear that ran down Their face created a tsunami on the spinning rock that drowned countries and cities with indiscriminate malice. But even events of such magnitude could not call the creatures away from the abyss of self-seeking and loveless interaction.
The unborn wailed in their despair and, even as another group winked out of being, The Creator lifted Their head.
It came to Them, on a wave of sorrowful realisation, that this creation was beyond Their help and they turned Their face from it knowing in Their heart what They must do.
The last of the unborn willed themselves out of existence as The Creator reached one hand across the firmament and plucked the ball of burning gas from the sky. They crushed it in Their hand and the ball of mud went dark..