Contribution

Without warning you are cast into what has been deemed 'The Plane of Suck', an infinite and boundless realm devoid of feature or detail. There is light enough to see from some unknown source, but there is nothing to be seen with it- simply an endless and unvarying blank whiteness in all directions, to all horizons, or as best as that can be said for a place where neither the surface you stand upon nor the sky-ceiling above has so much as a line to mark their separation.

It is entirely possible you have walked up into what was the roof when you arrived already without thinking about it, for there are no slopes, no solidity, no walls, no illusions of gravity and no freedoms of falling.

These things, however, you have been able to determine.

Firstly, the Plane of Suck is insofar as you can tell truly infinite, although you admit without any features or landmarks there isn't any possible way you could measure it. You could very well have wandered the same mile from every perspective instead. Secondly, the laws of science at home do not appear to apply; although your feet are always stuck to a 'surface', there isn't any source of gravity or illumination, and direction appears to be a construct only within your own scattered mind. Third, and most importantly, there is no way home.

This is important to remember because you might not be alone here.

There is a girl, another very recent occupant, though you haven't the courage to approach. If she was just stuck here with unending boredom too it would be easier, for you'd have a mutual complaint and be able to discuss your lives with mutual sympathy. You had meant to do just that.

But the girl had a pencil, and this pencil changed the world. No, quite literally, altered it. When she doodled, things occurred.

Suddenly, she had means of entertainment, and companions; food, though you've never felt the need for hunger here yourself, and shelter, though probably only from the storms within her mind as the Plane of Suck offered none-such. With mere doodling she began to bring a world to life.

Some among it had personalities of their own; one persistent and surprisingly evil stick figure strains to wrest the pencil from her clutches, and watching his own efforts fail somewhat wanes any aspirations of your own to do the same. Here in your corner of the box there is only the unceasing, and there on hers, day and night, color and vibrance, life and feel.

She might very well not be real. You might be projecting your own desires and fears onto this inescapable place, and you have seen her attempts to magic herself away with the pencil fall flat. Perhaps that is another law, if she is real- the objects only affect the Plane.

If she is real, the doodler might well be the only one, too. You've wondered if her creations have memories like you do. You think your body is more solid than many, but you don't know that it isn't a delusion rendered by the pencil to make you more believable.

And so it is that you think you might be alone, despite all you've seen. If you are a projection of her imagination she is alone, and if she is a figment of yours you are alone. And the effort to cross the purgatory and say hello is every bit as daunting as the Endless.

Perhaps it is different when one has the pencil. Perhaps... just maybe... it is then no longer the Plane of Suck at all. You dreamed up a name or perhaps remembered it, even.

It is Canvas, for creation.

Funny, she doesn't quite smell like a god.