Inktober 2019 #2 - Story and poem courtesy of Sariya

The Europan

Dim light of distant suns.

Salt-slush of silent seas.

Gravity: a tension of sorts, tidal.

Deep vents, temperature gradients, hot, cold, hot, cold hot.

Fermentation. Combustion. Digestion.

It had so many ways to keep going, to stay powered, to stay alive. All those failsafes and backups, redundancies well into the double digits. Piezos, catalytics, photovoltaics, turbines, even a very efficient stomach, all in perfect working order, all ready to snap into action.

And yet it still prefered the dim light of distant suns to remind it why.

The eighteenth whisker on the left is brown. I know this after countless nights awake beside you, watching every quiet breath. You puff your whiskers out on every yawn. On longer work-filled days, your whiskers wilt, exhaustion softening your features, sleep exerting subtle gravities to lead you to oneiric seas and dreamlike sands. I know this after countless nights awake. I know, I know, it's strange to watch you sleep, but when I can't, to know that someone can... at least it somehow lets me rest in turn. When I lay beside your sleeping form I know there's rest to still be had for me.