In the beginning, the elders say, formless chaos lay upon the face of the universe, roiling and spitting. Now I see strings of galaxies arcing across the void as gas clouds collapse under their own weight—stardust. As the inchoate future becomes past, matter condenses into pattern.

Time, that’s the remedy. It’s time which gives form and certainty to possibility.

Some of the matter swims, then sits up and crawls—the secret at the heart of the bud—slow and always straining back towards the stars.

Will we get there? Only the moving finger of time knows.

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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here