Out Here, We Even Marry The Cats

Ben crashed. 

Crashed was exactly the right word. One second he was in the lab, surrounded by anxious, hard-working faces, then it was like he had collided with Piccadilly traffic after drinking mojitos. He was not sure if his spacesuit had helped in the end. It certainly weighed him down. 

But Ben was still alive, lying on warm sand. Was this what happened to the other five? Or was he the sole survivor of the journey?

He lifted his head, noticing the sand was a bruised shade of purple, and that the only noise was a crackling he associated with Christmas. 

In front of him was a small group of mammals in a circle around a fire. Ben tried to stand, and managed to scrape forward on his elbows. He pushed himself towards the flames, leaving a trail in the sand behind him. 

He saw what kind of animals they were. 

Cats. Eighteen of them. Sixteen in lines of four, two out front near the fire. All of them facing the burning logs.

He dragged himself closer. On the other side of the fire was a woman. Golden hair flowed down her waist, and blended with her dress. She held a book in his hand, and read aloud in an unknown tongue. After a few more words she stopped, and paused her finger on of the page.

‘Ah, another one.’

A few of the cats in the back rows glanced at Ben. The suit dragged him down like an anchor. Again he tried to get up, again he managed less than a worm reaching for the sun.

‘It’s alright, I promise,’ The woman said. 'You get used to it. There’s no way back. You just have to get used to it.’

The two cats near the first pressed their noses together, as if kissing. There was a chorus of delighted meowing. The woman continued. 

'You see, round here, they like you to get involved. There’s lots to do. After all, out here, we even marry the cats.’

She returned to her speech, the words long and thick. The two cats at the front continued to nuzzle. Ben spotted the tiny tops hats, the fascinators, the bridal gown. And that next to the fire were spacesuits, identical except for the number engraved on their shoulders, empty like shells on the seashore.