henry purcell’s symphonic “come if you dare” is the arthurian 17th century equivalent of today’s “fucking fight me” and I demand we re-establish it as the official challenge to a duel.
Tag: writing
the oxygen in the air that you breathe is eating you alive but you’re still here so breathe a bit more of it and exhale and go conquer the world or something just as terribly wonderful that a species dying from its own metabolism can achieve.
The universe watches always, sees everything, but judges nothing, and responds never.
and let me tell you a secret, love: if you were really as cruel and terrible and loveless as you think you are, you wouldn’t try and work so hard and do everything to be as kind as you just proved yourself to truly be.
cruelty never doubts itself.
so don’t allow your kindness to do so.
What if all humans are really born as dragon riders?
What if all of us have a soul out there, yearning and calling out to us and so unbelievably lonely, connected to our own?
And what if the only reason we haven’t become the most terrifying force to ever be reckoned with in the history of everything is simply… that they’re too far away from us? That we were never allowed to find them? We have the legends, we have the stories and almost-forgotten memories passed down from ancestors that desperately tried to let us know, hoping we would bring back what has been ripped away from us. They were here, our myths whisper. Find them. Find them. Find them.
It’s been two hundred years since we first left our planet. Our ships roam the solar system. Trade flourishes and we are met with a strangely reserved kind of respect – almost as if we are merely tolerated, though never outright insulted or rejected.
And then, a ship vanishes. Another follows. We search for our lost people, don’t find, help refused by the creatures more intelligent than us, stronger, larger, still keeping their distance instead of overthrowing us. But when our ships return, we know why. When they return from what we thought was a prison colony planet full of caves underground and mountains too high to land, we learn.
They all speak different languages, those other creatures, but they share an age-old saying in all of them:
“You cannot kill a dragon, but you can tame it if you take the eggs from its nest.”
But we’re humans, and they didn’t know what that meant. Without the warmth from our other souls, we took the nearest hand. We made ourselves hatch.
What if all humans are really born as dragon riders?
And what if someone’s out there, waiting for us to find them?
“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.
wut
Where are they all going?
Only they know.
They go there so the things inside don’t come out.
we cannot all be
poems poured into human shape
some of us are
hymns sung before war breaks
They call you witch
Because they think it’s a curse
So walk upright
Because you know it’s the truth
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.
Moami 