“Tell me the truth,” the human demanded.

The universe rippled, almost like a smile. “I grant you permission to ask any question, and this is what you want to know?”

The human glared a little bit. “Tell me. Unless you’re breaking your promise,”

“Of course not,” said the universe. It pulled the human closer, made the space around it warm, slowed time into a gentle river.

“Well? What’s the truth of if all? The one thing that’s always true, no matter what?”

The universe held its human for a long or short while. Then, it said:
“There’s no always.”

“Okay,” said the human slowly, “okay, but – ”

“The only truth is change.”

For a tiny or an endless while, the human said nothing. When it looked up at the universe, its eyes were shining with tears (maybe happy ones, maybe sad ones; the universe couldn’t be sure. Nothing was certain with humans, and how magnificent that was).

“So even if – no matter what – ” The human couldn’t speak anything else. It curled against the universe and held on tight.

A pulse of light wove around the human as it dissolved. The universe watched its way back to the stars, back to its home, and whispered a little something after it for when it woke up again.

Indeed, my human… you’re right. No matter what, even if something and anything happens, change is true, and truth will always come.

Nobody knows when it began.

Some say it was a Monday morning, but it could have been a Tuesday, a Sunday or anything in between. It’s hard to even remember the season – was there snow? Had the trees lost their leaves yet? Were other cats squeaking when their paws touched the concrete because the sun was burning down with too many degrees and no mercy?

It could have been years ago, or centuries.

All the people of the small town know is this:

The cat doesn’t move.

And it doesn’t seem to eat, either. They’re not even sure if it’s a she or a he. (Some whisper it’s neither. A kid told his friend in school, during break. His friend said that’s stupid, but her eyes were a little watery and very wide.)

When it rains, the cat nuzzles flat into the ground.

When the sun shines, its nose lifts into the air, eyes blinking, fur uncoiling in little happy motions.

When the heavy blizzards come, nobody can see it. Every year, they think: This is it. There’s no way this tiny thing survived. Children don’t go to school, adults don’t even need to call into work because snow rules the world and the sky spits ice into the streets and lakes.

As soon as winter leaves, the people go out looking.

The cat is still there. Its eyes are soft half-moon smiles. Someone always leaves food. It goes untouched, and somehow, not even the crows or seagulls dare come close to pick it up.

Everyone hears when it begins.

From one second to another, the sky is gone. There is no light. The universe yawns in horrible silence above their heads. Impossible, the people whisper as they stare where the stars should be and only infinite darkness grins back.

The earth cracks. A sound emerges from it, loud and distorted and a million noises screeching at once. The people of the little town are running.

The cat sits next to the hole in the ground. Something is next to it, a terrible shadow, eyes coal-glowing-red, a claw around the cat’s neck. It looks at the people, half-moon happiness now despair, as if to say: I did all I could.

And the people realize (too late), and they beg (too little), and they shiver when the shadow moves toward them.

The cat doesn’t cry. It can’t. But it sits and looks at them with sad full-moon pupils, as if to say: I’m sorry for not being stronger.

Source: catflare

People often misunderstand what the old saying about a cat having nine lives means. The cats prefer to keep it a secret, as most humans can’t be trusted with information so fragile and precious, but there are exceptions.

The merchant who shares his leftover fish. The young girl that hides littler after litter of newborn ones in her room until they find new homes. The old man with scars who still has enough kindness to open his shed to let them slip in from the rain. Boys, teenagers, mothers, warriors, brothers – some are trusted.

Exceptions, yes, few nowadays and rare, but honoured all the more.

So nine lives there are indeed. Each cat is born with them and no matter the time or place, they are lost easily.

This is where the story ends for most people.

But for those who are trusted, those who wake up one morning and find a weird taste in their mouth, the scent of a forest never touched by human hands in their nose, and a strange lingering touch of whiskers on their forehead – they know the truth.

Nine lives for this world, is what all our legends used to say.

You, friend of cats, know the ancient, almost forgotten sayings.

You know of cat eyes shining in the deepest night when they shouldn’t be able to. You know of cats staring past your ear, at that forbidden spot right by the frayed corner of your vision, and you fear that if you look, your cat won’t be able to stare it into submission anymore. You don’t look. The cat purrs. You’re safe.

The kittens have all their lives still. They do not look at the edgewalking beasts that whisper through their humans’ house. It will take time until they fall, hurt, learn.

The oldest cats know so much that a touch of their paw will make an entire village shudder. Their quiet voices cast spells. Let them roam. You cannot imagine the things that flee from them as they walk in silence.

Cat friend, you know it in your heart.

You know of the paths they walk that human feet can’t find.

You know of the nights they vanish and return with the scent of blood, earth and salt in their fur, and when your fingers touch their coat, a cold shiver awakes your skin.

Sometimes, they hear things. You don’t know what, but you know enough to let them sit in front of your house or room, paws tucked under, dark stare never leaving an invisible spot in the air.

And when you float between sleep and life, when you’re unlucky enough to claw at the edge of death before you’re ready to go…

Then maybe, friend of cats, you’ll feel a brush of fur along your legs. Maybe, just before you startle with awe in your heart and wake once more, the same pair of eyes that should sleep by your side winks at you from another world.

“Think of the children, please.”

She had told them so many times.

“The children. I beg you, all of you. Think of the children.”

They had ignored her, and now James kind of wished they hadn’t.

Their torches light up the cave’s walls, barely pushing back the darkness, just enough for Catherine to read and half-whispering translate the ancient symbols scrawled all over them. James is by her side, one arm around the woman’s neck, and goddamn it, the old hag is still whimpering about children and won’t anyone think of them, please.

“Shut your mouth,” James growls at her, squeezes a bit. The old woman croaks. She goes still then. Her eyes are fixed on a point over James’ head, going wide and huge and he’s got enough of that. “What is it now, huh? You already insane with fear?”

The rest of the group laughs. Their silver daggers catch the torches’ light, reflect it into the dark.

“James,” Catherine says. “James, be quiet.”

“You know, this is why I’m a hunter.” He pulls the old woman close, frowning when her jaw falls open in silent horror. “Hey, listen when you’re talked to. Unbelievable. But seriously, you people are pathetic. Can’t even take care of a few bloodsuckers by yourself. Aren’t you angry? Huh? They took your children, forchrissake.”

“James.” A gloved hand touches his arm. Catherine’s face is pale like death in the torchlight. “We have to go.”

Something shuffles behind him. James throws a look over his shoulder, the others shifting their torches into his field of vision, but nothing’s there. The old woman lets out a pathetic wail. He shakes her off.

“Crazy old hag. You’re all cowards, your entire damn village. If it had been my kids, I would’ve marched here on my own, killed them all at once – hey!”

The woman is at his feet, digging her clawy hands into his legs where she grips them. “Now you’ve done it,” she whispers. “The children. I told you to think of the children.”

“James,” Catherine says, and then a white hands reaches around her neck and pulls her into the dark.

“What the fuck – Cat!”

A torch drops. James whirls around just in time to watch the fire sizzle out on the wet cave floor. For a second, the light illuminates the ground in brilliant, terrifying red.

“Oh God.” He can’t breathe. The torches go out, one by one, each falling when another hand claws into a neck and another man or woman is pulled into the dark.

Then, the old woman is in front of him. Blood pours from her thin lips. James stares, a scream stuck in his throat, as a claw wounds its way through her neck. The last torch blows out.

But the cave doesn’t plunge into darkness.

“The children,” a choir of hundred voices hums. Two hundred eyelids slip open with a wet, sucking squelch. Two hundred small, round circles awaken on the walls of the cave that has never been one but a nest instead, and the scratch of hundreds upon hundreds of stinking nails over rotting stone sway the choir’s soft song into a rhythm:

“The children, the children, how could you forget the children?”

“you’re destroying yourself,” he told her. she didn’t reply. “you can’t live for just your mind and nothing else. you’re human, for god’s sake. you need love, affection, you need all the things that all of us need. please. you’re destroying yourself.”

she didn’t look at him. her fingers turned the page. her eyes read. her lashes flickered shut, just a second, before she drank the words on the paper. more information. more data. all the connections and causes the world had to offer.

he reached for her, touched her shoulder. “please,” now he was begging, “you’re not a machine.”

“but I wish I was.”

“you can’t be.” he spoke gently now, hope rising up. maybe he could reach her. “you don’t have to be. it’s okay not to know things. sometimes there are no answers, or a problem that even you can’t solve. there are things bigger than any of us, and you can’t do anything to understand them.”

she froze under his touch.

he let go. he took a breath. “it will be okay. you’ll get used to it. come on.”

“no,” she said.

he opened his mouth. she turned to him, and the shine of her eyes spoke not of life as it used to, not of curiosity nor the yearning for knowledge that had made her the most brilliant creature he’d ever seen.

“who are you?” he whispered it, stumbling, terror in his voice. she was brilliant still, and it had made her –

“i am my mind.” she didn’t blink anymore. her fingers were curled around the book, a page crumpled up under her palm. “i was nothing before i could think like this. before i knew. before i could connect all the information, make nets and theories and new ways. don’t you see?” her smile spread over her lips, hesitating then, shying away from her wide black pupils.

he pressed his back to the wall. his body trembled. “you are more than this.”

“no!” she hissed. her fist crashed into the book, tears springing to her eyes. “you don’t understand, stupid, stupid! my mind could be perfect! it could be brilliant, better than anyone, it could make me special. it could make me more than just another…”

“human?” her swallowed. moved. came closer, just a step. “you don’t want to be human?”

“no. yes. I want…”

“it’s okay. you don’t have to be extraordinary, you know? it’s alright to be enough-”

“I want to be more.”

he took all the courage he had and went back to her. when he stood in front of her, silent, she touched her fingers to his chest.

“if you’re not brilliant, you’ll be forgotten.”

her fingers curled into a fist.

“I’d rather be remembered than human.”

writing-prompt-s:

You are a NASA scientist with the budget of the U.S. Military.

“What changed?”

“I’m sorry?”

The alien waves three of their hands around impatiently. “On Earth, that is what I wonder. What changed. They did not want to let you to us, in the beginning?”

The scientist shakes her head. “Not back then, no.” She watches her crew stumble off the ship and into the worried hugs and environmental adaptation injections of the natives. The alien has stopped administering her own medication, and just looks at her now.

“So they changed their minds, then. About us. About other planets.”

“No.”

“I do not understand.”

The scientist smiles. Which is good, but the alien knows that liquid coming out of her eyes is a bad sign, and the mix of signals is highly alarming. “Please, do explain. We waited fifty years for you, and you come here hurt like this.”

“None of them changed their mind. We just acquired the – let’s say, we finally got the means to come here.”

“That is good,” the alien nods, clearly relieved. “Then they believe you now. They will come here too?”

“You have to understand.” Suddenly, the scientist is very quiet. Her eyes are shiny and wet, and the alien finds that she looks more human than ever, more emotional than any scientist the alien knows.

“You have to understand,” the human says again, a drop of liquid slipping down her cheek. “I wish we couldn’t have come here. I wish we’d still be there. I wish there was still war and pain and, you can hate me for this if you want to, I wish there was still someone suffering and waiting for it all to be better.”

“Why would you ever want that? Nobody should be in pain, no living thing.”

The human looks at the alien. Her face is wet all over now. Tears, the alien remembers, that is what the liquid is called.

There is not scientist anymore when the human whispers softly:

“We wouldn’t have to be here if they were still in pain. We wouldn’t have been able to go here if there was anyone left to wage a war. We wouldn’t have needed to go here if there was anyone left to die.”

Will we leave something behind?

Will they still know me tomorrow, next year, a century or a hundred after this?

Will our bodies echo through time like a wave along the ocean? Will our souls connect to the universe at an infinite numbers of points, each a touch, and still sing our songs when all else is gone and darkness is the only one to listen?

Maybe not. We could become nothing.

Or we could become part of everything.

We just may.

The Boy Who Was Not Like Them, I Promise, He Is Different

He gathers all his courage, every last bit, and sits next to his beautiful girl. “Hey there,” he says. He’s loved her for so long, and she likes him, he knows that. “How are you?”

But she likes where he loves. She’s friend where he’s obsession, and he needs more. He needs it all.

She is looking into the distance, out the window. He’s used to it. He keeps talking. “Can’t believe you’re single again. What is it with you and the guys? I mean of course none of them deserve you, only the best man does. Someone who’s close to you. Who’s honourable and good and treats you well, and I suppose that last guy didn’t do that – “

Her hand touches his shoulder. “Please don’t,” she says quietly. Her eyes are so dark, oh, he wants to drown. “Don’t ask me out. I cannot reject you forever.”

“Then don’t.” There it is. His chance. “All your boyfriends, they only stay with you for a week and then I never hear of them again. I’m not like them, I promise. I’m different, I’ll treat you like a queen. You can be mine, baby. Sweet baby.”

Maybe, if he’d been paying attention, he would have noticed. How the other boys (and a few girls, too) shy away from her as soon as their hands get sweaty and their eyes dreamy around her. They sense it. He doesn’t. “Please. Go out with me.”

She’s silent for a long time. Her fingers are long and oh they’d feel so good on him, he thinks and tries not to lick his lips, he could kiss her with it. He’ll do it, soon, when they’re a couple. Finally, she sees him as he is.

“Come home with me after class, then.”

He’s never heard sweeter words. And during class, he stares only at her, hoping, imagining how it’ll be in a few hours.

They walk home. She takes his hand, and he almost cries out. It’s cold as ice. How strange, that he only notices now, but then again he’s never touched her skin before. Weird, that he hasn’t realised that before. Something feels different.

Her flat is on the ground floor. The door is white. Her hand is tight around his now, and his knuckles start to hurt. “Wow, you’re strong,” he jokes, or tries. His tongue is thick in his mouth, filling it like a swollen wound.

“Come on in.” It sounds like an offer. It’s not. She pulls him in like he’s a child, a jolt of pain rushes through his wrist. “Ow, what the hell!” His resistance is late, but he pushes his heels into the ground, cries out once, they’re in the bedroom.

He screams.

The bones on her bed are white as pearls. She has sorted them, by type first and then by size, and the skulls sit on the headboard in an arch of hollow ivory. His girl, his beautiful girl, puts her soft mouth on his hurting wrist.

“You could have been a friend,” she tells him softly. “I loved you so dearly, my friend. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t love me as I was, free and kind and by your side. We could have been so good, my friend. We could have been companions, hadn’t you looked at me like I was meat for your tongue to lick into and eat up and tear apart.”

“Please.” His vision blurs when he starts crying. “Oh God, please.” The fear is coming just now, as he drinks it all in, his mind roaring – piles of boy clothes, a container with red liquid, and the gorgeous darkness of her eyes as she leans down to rip off his hand with her teeth.

While he wails until his throat goes hoarse, she sits on his legs, turning him from one into many parts, and says: “Now you’ll be torn apart by the queen.”

I think we could learn a lot from the robots we’re building. Imagine talking to a machine fitted with an artificial intelligence that can communicate with us. We’d ask so many questions, just because we hope for something new so badly.

So we’d go to the robot and ask, “What’s your purpose?”

The robot would make a little beep or whatever noise it chooses to signify processing of data. “My purpose is whatever you programmed into me,” it would say.

And we’d be disappointed. Because that’s not new. “Oh.” Already thinking about ways to change the robot, we mutter to ourselves: “Aren’t you lucky, knowing exactly what you’re meant to do.”

The robot hears that, of course. Maybe it would laugh, maybe not, but it would certainly reach for us in its own way of soothing. And if we’d listen closely, I’m sure we’d hear pain in its emotional voice.

“Aren’t you lucky, choosing exactly what you want to do?”

When I was in elementary school, a boy came up to me during break. He’d been playing soccer with his friends and the ball went sideways somehow, and ended up near me. He went after it to get it back, but stopped next to me. I was reading. I did that every break, just like he played soccer every break.

I noticed him standing there, but didn’t say anything. When he didn’t seem to be moving anytime soon, I looked at him.

He was staring at me. I stared back.

“Why are you reading all the time?” he said.

I thought it was a stupid question, so I probably sounded a bit annoyed when I asked him: “Why do you play soccer all the time?”, expecting him to get angry or make fun of me.

But the boy, I’ve forgotten his name or never knew it anyways, just tilted his head a bit. He nudged the ball with the tip of his foot, then kicked it back to the other boys. “Mhm. Okay,” he said, and ran off.

He didn’t do anything extraordinary. We didn’t become friends, we didn’t talk again and I can’t even remember his face. All he did was to say okay.

Maybe that’s all we can do sometimes; saying okay even when we don’t understand.