Writing Prompt

Who? Who? Who?

Will understand a creature who sleeps when others wake?

Who? Who? Who?

Will not be afraid when they see those shadowed birds crawl across the moon?

Who? Who? Who?

Will see those glowing eyes And that painted face and see anything Other than a terrifying creature With swooping wings and taloned claws?

Who Who? Who? Who?

If anyone Will pity those nocturnal beasts?

“Who am I? What am I?” the feathery feline asked the wise man, in tears. “The owls say I’m not an owl, the cats will not play with me either. I feel so lonely and sad.”

The wise man smiled and took his wrinkled hand to the creature’s head.

“Do not let it get to you, Minguar. Not all animals in the jungle understand those who are different but that doesn’t mean you are worthless.”

“But I have no friends. Everybody makes fun of me and calls me a freak because I am a cat with feathers. Or an owl that looks like a cat.”

“That is precisely where your great value lies, young one. You have the qualities of both, you can fly like an owl and run and climb trees like a cat. But most animals do not understand that being different can be a beautiful thing, they just judge according to their own values. Besides, Minguar, never forget that true beauty lies in your feelings, not in your looks. You have a kind heart. You just need to find those like you, those who really understand you and accept you as you are.”

Minguar, the feathery cat, wiped his tears with his paw. He rubbed his soft head against the wise man’s hand as he thanked him for his words.

The animals kept making fun of him but as he grew older he started realising he cared less and less about it. Suddenly other animals’ opinions of him didn’t matter anymore. He started loving his own company and find joy and love within. Self-love, what a beautiful feeling.

That was when it finally happened. While he was looking at his own reflection on a puddle of water, he saw the reflection of two others like him. He turned around, incredulous. They smiled.

“You look exactly like me!” he exclaimed. “Yet I’ve never seen you around.”

“No, we can only show up in the life of a Different One when he or she finally accepts him or herself. That’s when the Different One can understand us.”

“I don’t understand?”

“It means that only when you start loving and accepting yourself without the other animals’ approval are you ready to see and join your kind. Because we are the Different Ones we cannot expect to be understood by those who are all the same.”

Minguar still looked confused, but the others smiled and told him he could live among them. The feathery feline finally had friends. Others exactly like him, who never judged him even when he made mistakes or acted clumsy. With the Different Ones it was perfectly fine to be a feline with feathers. Or an owl that looked like a cat. It really didn’t matter.

Sadness filled Luna. Her entire clan was gone, wiped out, and she didn’t do anything to stop it. When she closed her eyes, she saw the bodies everywhere. Mostly of the her clan, but a few of the enemy. Luna knew who had attacked them, but she didn’t know why. The clans had been at peace for centuries. Granted, these peace was achieved by isolation.

What was Luna to do now? Fight, avenge the fallen? Fighting was not in her nature, she was a coward at heart. A loner, she never blended with her fellows. While others trained in fighting skills, Luna preferred the mystic arts. While not forbidden, they were frowned upon. Still, she was drawn to this arcane knowledge. She pondered now, whether she made a mistake. If she were a fighter, she would been with everyone else. And died like rest.

She took to the air, trying to find solace in the air currents. It was drizzling, but she found comfort there. Chaos ruled the weather, and she learned to embrace chaos. Where would she go now? To another clan? Would they accept her?

Luna flew on, her grief slowly leaving her. Her kind were thought of as cold by other beings, but this wasn’t the case. OwlCats were passionate, emotional creatures, but they knew how to move on. They feel emotions, but they were not ruled by them.

A pang in her stomach told her she needed to eat soon. She was still in the confines of her clan’s territory, or what used to be theirs, so she should worry about poaching. The scent of those who did such damage had faded. She sighted a rabbit, swooped down, and made her kill.

Hunger sated, Luna curled up for the night. She purred to herself, trying to calm her nerves. She should rest well tonight, and try to move on tomorrow. There was another clan over the mountain, she could go there. Their scent wasn’t on the battleground, so they were not the ones who attacked. They were a private group, never participating in trades or the rare meetings. She would try to join them, or at least just find a place to rest and tell her tale of sorrow.

Luna curled up and fell asleep. Mercifully, she had no dreams.

This land is old. Older than his descendants. Older than his blood. Older than his clan. Older than any war.

But it is not older than he.

He remembers finding this place: a desolate, dusty ravine hidden in the desert mountains. Desperate to escape the world, he had settled there, in a small cave.

The more time he spent there, the faster he realized that the journeys for food were becoming hazardous. So he began to work.

Every trip for food became a search for seeds. His wings grew strong from hauling water to and fro. He grew to be a powerful digger. The land thrived for many, many years.

Once, he had stopped to think about what he had accomplished. The children loved to hide in the flowers, the buzz of bees disguising their laughs. More often than not they came back with the sugar of fruit sticky on their fur. The adults chuckled when the kids attempted to raid the vegetables and did nothing but recoil in disgust.

They had a community, and it was thriving.

However, all good things must come to an end.

The land he had created died. Not to war, not to famine, not even to sickness.

Instead, winter arrived, the first in centuries.

Only the desert grass survived, sturdy and resilient in any weather. His clan lived on, in other places. They had begged him to go, but he had a responsibility. This was his creation, and he would fix it.

He was old now. His mind remained sharp but his body was worn. His wings did little more than trail along the ground. His eyes had not been open for many years. Even his legs were beginning to weaken.

But he would remain here, until the land was alive.

He settled down to rest forever, and watch over the ravine for the rest of time.

A white flower greeted his spirit, soaked in rain rather than burdened with sand.

He still has hope, no matter what. This place will never die.

This land is old.

Rain falling over him streaming in faucet drops Sitting on a puddle of the soaked grass He waits all alone The eyes within seem to be full of precious tears The ones that are formed from lonesome moments A creature from a mystery he is Bird like feathers make him charming But brows frowning makes him unapproachable Sitting in the puddle of soaked grass No one comes near for he is different But the tears that leak from his pupils Underneath there is a new flower that has bloomed What a beauty from such sorrow Fog of delay of morning has formed Around the figure of dreams He’s different, made from part and parts of others An eagle, bobcat, owl? Whatever lies in the long lash stems Doesn’t stir a noise from around Where his tears of dark liquid grows rain does not stop for it keeps pelting the earth For it doesn’t stop for one creature that’s lonesome What a saddened thing of fantasy

Again. And again. And again. The small lompura fell. “All the others caught on so quickly,” he thought. But the others were bigger with larger, less battered wings. He sat in the wet grass Defeated, Aching and sore. Tears swelled in his eyes. He did not want to cry- not while he knew mother watched from the nest above. But the rest of her young had flown off Taking flight with ease. He shed a single tear, and the rest burst from his soul, needing To be released from their windows.

He cried because he knew he would try again and would fail again.

Mother called: “Again.”