Once upon a time, the President of the Universe sat in his office and looked down through the clouds at planet earth. All things considered, he reflected dispassionately, he was satisfied with what he had done. He read through the items on his Project Management Sheet:

Land mass to ocean ratio. Check.

Atmospheric pressure. Check.

Gravity. Check.

Weather, temperature, seasons. Check.

Then … CRASH! THUMP! CLANG! Å

A cacophony of noises disturbed his concentration. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and hissed, “Not again.” Then he rose from his chair and began to leap from cloud to cloud. When he arrived at Altocumulus # 9, he paused to look through the gateposts. He observed his niece Ariela, pretty as a poppy in a maelstrom, and his nephew Hamish, frantic as an apiculturist under attack by a swarm of bees.

Thirteen-year-old Ariela, angrily kicking a small nimbus cloud that the President of the Universe had given her a week ago, was screaming, “Rain! Rain! Why aren’t you raining? I want rain NOW!” Fourteen-year-old Hamish, glaring at his sister with hatred, was knocking books, potted plants, and sketchpads off their tables and maniacally shouting, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

The President of the Universe took a deep frustrated breath. Both children, he realized, were spoiled. They needed structure, purpose, and discipline. They needed HIM. He pushed open the gate, grabbed one child in each massive hand, tucked him (or her) under an arm, and sprang off Altocumulus # 9. Then he leapt from cloud to cloud until he was back in his own office, on his own cloud.

Half an hour later, his niece and nephew were seated opposite him at a large, sturdy table on which he had arranged huge multi-colored pots of paint, small jars filled with paintbrushes, and enormous sheets of vellum paper. His instructions to them had been unequivocal. “You are not to leave this table until you have created something beautiful.”

He glared at his nephew, who had artistic talent, but used it to draw pictures of complex mechanical devices that lopped off people’s heads.

“It must be beautiful,” the President of the Universe repeated with emphasis. Then he returned to his own desk.

Ariela looked at her brother. “Oh, my,” she whispered, temporarily compliant. “What do we do now?”

Hamish pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, a little less churlishly than usual, “Uncle is omniscient, he is omnipotent, and he’s in a really, really bad mood. So, we’d better do exactly as he says.” And they did. Or, at least, they started out to.

Meanwhile, The President of the Universe had resumed study of his Project Management Sheet.

“Where was I?” He murmured thoughtfully. “Weather, temperature, seasons. That’s right. Three seasons in all. Spring, summer, and winter. Spring brings rebirth, regeneration, and renewal. Summer means growth, abundance, and fruition. Winter is death, dormancy, and rest.” He frowned. “But…but…something seems to be missing. I wonder if…”

CRASH! CLANG! CLATTER! CLUNK!

The President of the Universe jerked his head toward the area where his niece and nephew were working. Or, rather, were supposed to be working. But, instead of creating something beautiful, they were squabbling and fighting. With flailing fists, they had overturned their table. Papers flew, jars shattered, brushes clattered, and pigment from paint pots was pouring into the clouds below.

Rosy Blush into cumulonimbus clouds. Mandarin Orange into altostratus clouds. Fuchsia into cirrocumulus clouds. Gold Nugget into stratus clouds. Mellow Yellow into cirrus clouds. And Vermillion into cumulous clouds.

As paint fell, it melded with the molecules of water composing clouds, and quick as a blink, all of the pretty white fleece was transformed into angry shades of orange, purple, gold, yellow, and red.

The President of the Universe dropped his big knuckles to his desktop and glared at the hooligans he had the misfortune to call nephew and niece. Then a passion (not unlike the one he had experienced when he was creating volcanoes) began to throb acrimony into his heart. Thunder roared, the firmament blackened, and lightning bolted across the sky. Terrified by these emotions, every cloud in the troposphere inhaled vaporous mists of paint. Then they gasped, coughed, choked, and exhaled what seemed to be an interminable deluge of multi-colored rain. The rain fell and fell and fell to earth.

Happenstantially … since all stories that begin “Once upon a time” are happenstantial, these events transpired at the very instant that summer was supposed to turn into winter. That transformation, however, was delayed, because the earth was far too busy absorbing an avalanche of paint.

Needful to say, mere seconds after the President of the Universe was overcome by outrage, his anger dissipated and was replaced by curiosity, reason, and perhaps … just perhaps … a little tiny smidgen of regret. He looked down, and began to study the world below. Rain obscured his vision, so he snapped his fingers. The rain stopped. The clouds grew white and fluffy. The sun shone. The sky turned an exquisite opalescent blue.

And earth … ah, well … earth. It was not the predictable polychromatic orb he had last seen. It had become instead a thing of wonder. A thing of majesty. A manifestation more glorious than anything he had ever before imagined or seen. Trees no longer were summer green; they were a panoply of new colors created by sunlight streaming through translucent leaves that fluttered against a bejeweled blue sky.

Flecks of gold were scattered over green lawns; burnished red foliage mirrored the surface of silver lakes; tides of purple leaves clustered at the base of lovely old cemetery stones; feathery gold and copper fronds fanned out in front of stubby shrubs; and shafts of sunlight speared through leafy yellow, brown, and pink canopies of trees.

The President of the Universe leaned over his desk, mesmerized. He smelled the intoxicating scent of a previously unknown … undiscovered season. A season that should follow summer, linger for a moment to reflect upon its glorious past, and then surrender to the inevitability of a frosty, frozen winter to come. He liked what he saw. He knew that it was needful. He knew that it was necessary.

Spring. Yes. Summer. Yes. Winter. Yes. And “yes” to this new season as well. He would call it “autumn” for no reason other than that it was a pretty sounding name.

Reluctantly, he let his eyes drift to his niece and nephew who – terrified about his response to their misbehavior – were trying to hide behind a fleecy pink cloud. Instead of scowling, though, he smiled. “You have done what I asked you to do,” he said. “You made something beautiful.”

Then the President of the Universe settled himself in the big leather swivel chair behind his desk. He thought at bit more about the accidental invention of autumn, and he was glad.

Very, very glad, indeed.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2024. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.