"The Magic of Disgust" by A.D. Payne
They say a Creator is incapable of making mistakes. At first glance, it’s easy to understand how the Created would’ve come up with that. But they’re wrong. As they usually are. Just look a little closer at any part of the day, and you’ll see it.
Do you?
There. Just a room, a schoolroom, and three children. One boy, two girls. Like most of the Created, examples don’t need to be complicated. Everything has a root, and the root is always simple.
They’re bare, right now. Still, quiet, minding their own business. It’s all they can do. All they will ever do, if I don’t give them the bit of magic that truly creates the Created. Before, they’re just as created as a blank piece of paper. Existing, but only in their own shades, and nothing else. Without any real creation happening—without life.
So with the slightest twinge of pain, I breathe it in.
The magic. It’s the push of will and the pull of restraint. The pride of identity, yet the shame of it, too. Beaming and scathing. Approval and disdain. The magic of disgust. Subtle. Not so much as a flinch ripples through them, until they begin to blink and straighten themselves. Now, they can fully take in the details of the room. The walls in front of them, the desks, the books with so many words built to build them. The first stares they exchange are blank, mostly curious. As they all start.
Which way will they be built?
I already know the answer. Just watch; just watch. I’ll quicken it a bit: it is the thirtieth time they meet in the room again.
The boy, with black hair and blue eyes, suddenly smiles. It isn’t a pretty thing; it clashes with his beautiful face. It’s cruel, wrinkling at the sides in a prideful twist. The magic has taken easiest to him, with his palette; a charming one. He could’ve been the paragon of violence, and the rest of the Created would love him regardless. It was for that reason, originally, that I’d given them the magic. Self awareness in disgust.
See how that goes, now. His eyes are done with absorbing the room, which is full of bright, happy drawings looking just like him. They turn on the other two girls sitting behind him. They’re curious.
On one—the golden-haired—they light up, asking to play. They’re a pretty pair, even and similar looking. Just like the drawings still on the wall. Those haven’t changed. The girl, Ada, agrees, not thinking twice except to invite the other. She’s smaller, with black hair and dark eyes, which light up in surprise at the words.
“Me?” she asks.
“Surely not,” the boy quickly replies, jutting his chin out before Ada can reply. “Her kind doesn’t play with us—they don’t play at all. Too smart, so my mum says. It’s no fun playing with them. Hurry up, and come.”
Ada frowns, for good reason. Already, the girl is protesting with the words she has. They fall on mostly deaf ears. Another fault in the magic.
So many faults.
The two leave, and the girl relents. She has no choice. But she is used to it, don’t you see? The magic has little effect on her anymore.
The magic. Disgust.
It’s not done yet.
It’s apparent, on the face of the girl. Ada. Disgust in the curl of her lip, as she tells of what she does know. Disgust in her shining eyes, as she looks down to the boy for his words.
Disgust, in the throw of her shoulders as she leaves him to find the girl, still in her own corner. Now she is not alone. Because being alone would’ve been better than being with him. Both know this. And so both play.
Disgust.
The magic of disgust.
Do you see, Created? There are so many faults, only brought to balance by those brave enough. Those that can use it differently.
It is so broken. All of it, all a mistake. And I want to be sorry. I want to take it back. But would it be better otherwise? Without the girls, the bonds, the purest pride? Without any level at all to place the magic’s greatest strengths? Without ever a true strive for a higher cause.
You tell me.
Do you?
There. Just a room, a schoolroom, and three children. One boy, two girls. Like most of the Created, examples don’t need to be complicated. Everything has a root, and the root is always simple.
They’re bare, right now. Still, quiet, minding their own business. It’s all they can do. All they will ever do, if I don’t give them the bit of magic that truly creates the Created. Before, they’re just as created as a blank piece of paper. Existing, but only in their own shades, and nothing else. Without any real creation happening—without life.
So with the slightest twinge of pain, I breathe it in.
The magic. It’s the push of will and the pull of restraint. The pride of identity, yet the shame of it, too. Beaming and scathing. Approval and disdain. The magic of disgust. Subtle. Not so much as a flinch ripples through them, until they begin to blink and straighten themselves. Now, they can fully take in the details of the room. The walls in front of them, the desks, the books with so many words built to build them. The first stares they exchange are blank, mostly curious. As they all start.
Which way will they be built?
I already know the answer. Just watch; just watch. I’ll quicken it a bit: it is the thirtieth time they meet in the room again.
The boy, with black hair and blue eyes, suddenly smiles. It isn’t a pretty thing; it clashes with his beautiful face. It’s cruel, wrinkling at the sides in a prideful twist. The magic has taken easiest to him, with his palette; a charming one. He could’ve been the paragon of violence, and the rest of the Created would love him regardless. It was for that reason, originally, that I’d given them the magic. Self awareness in disgust.
See how that goes, now. His eyes are done with absorbing the room, which is full of bright, happy drawings looking just like him. They turn on the other two girls sitting behind him. They’re curious.
On one—the golden-haired—they light up, asking to play. They’re a pretty pair, even and similar looking. Just like the drawings still on the wall. Those haven’t changed. The girl, Ada, agrees, not thinking twice except to invite the other. She’s smaller, with black hair and dark eyes, which light up in surprise at the words.
“Me?” she asks.
“Surely not,” the boy quickly replies, jutting his chin out before Ada can reply. “Her kind doesn’t play with us—they don’t play at all. Too smart, so my mum says. It’s no fun playing with them. Hurry up, and come.”
Ada frowns, for good reason. Already, the girl is protesting with the words she has. They fall on mostly deaf ears. Another fault in the magic.
So many faults.
The two leave, and the girl relents. She has no choice. But she is used to it, don’t you see? The magic has little effect on her anymore.
The magic. Disgust.
It’s not done yet.
It’s apparent, on the face of the girl. Ada. Disgust in the curl of her lip, as she tells of what she does know. Disgust in her shining eyes, as she looks down to the boy for his words.
Disgust, in the throw of her shoulders as she leaves him to find the girl, still in her own corner. Now she is not alone. Because being alone would’ve been better than being with him. Both know this. And so both play.
Disgust.
The magic of disgust.
Do you see, Created? There are so many faults, only brought to balance by those brave enough. Those that can use it differently.
It is so broken. All of it, all a mistake. And I want to be sorry. I want to take it back. But would it be better otherwise? Without the girls, the bonds, the purest pride? Without any level at all to place the magic’s greatest strengths? Without ever a true strive for a higher cause.
You tell me.
Atticus Payne is a teenage writer based in Malaysia.