People-watching was a perennial favorite of Fin's hobbies. It was an easy thing to accomplish in the market place where he was surrounded by a throng of shifting bodies and faces, voices that called out to each other with affection, annoyance, hostility, polite curiosity. A rainbow of tones and emotions all buffeting him at once while he sat on a covered barrel against a building, hands busy with a scrap of leather. A smoke dangled from his lips, the white wisps sometimes briefly obscuring his view of those that passed him, causing small distortions in his perception.

Perception was such a tricky thing. What one saw was so often a lie, a front, a tiny sliver of a greater truth. One could never really know the deep, dark parts of another person's mind or heart, there would always be something hidden from the rest of the world. Dark thoughts that would not bear the scrutiny of light being shone upon them, bitter hopes and jealousies that would not be received favorably, but also secret loves, tender feelings that were held back by fear. And one could change their perception at will, which made it even trickier. How could one trust that anything one saw was true? Even if it was true, how was it to be believed?

The thoughts circled round and round in his head while his mind and his heart argued ceaselessly. What was the point in engaging others, in hitching your wagon to another's when he could never be certain of their motivations? But being alone, feeling so alone...it fed the monster that lurked within, the one made of hate and rage that begged for more when he took a life.

Fingers paused in their weaving, lifting to pull the cigarette from his lips, let it rest loosely between two knuckles while unoccupied fingers rubbed at his forehead. Christ Almighty, he must be the only person that could think himself into a headache.

Born a Down's Syndrome baby, Anna didn't understand much more than any young child. She knew when she was hungry, when she was frightened, when she was hurting. Sometimes there was happiness, but it was always shushed. She had to be quiet, which she only understood as suddenly falling asleep.

She knew she loved her brother. He was everything to her. He cared for her, and she knew nothing more than that. He was the most beautiful person in the world.

And he lay still on the floor of the cold gantry apartment, his eyes open but unseeing. His clothing was torn away, blood was everywhere. Anna crept out of the cupboard where he kept her hidden long after his guest left.

"Donny?" she whispered. She shook his shoulder. She frowned. He didn't wake. He didn't hear her. He was cold. Anna stared at him.

The door opened, and an Angel stood there. Anna stared at him in mute astonishment. He was tall, too tall for the door frame. Silver hair haloed him, head to foot. Blue eyes gleamed in a face impassive as a doll.

In his hand, a bloody sword. In the other, the headless remains of Donny's last guest. He dropped the body as his gaze lowered to the young woman and her brother.

"Donny," Anna whispered. She was not afraid. She remembered long ago someone telling her about angels. They were in one of her worn and battered picture books. She wanted her brother to see this wonder.

"Come. He is ended. I will take you to safety," the angel told her in a voice that was music, holding his hand to her, seeming as unaware as she that it was laced in blood.

"Donny."

The angel's fine brows knit. Anna pressed her lips together and made words with her hands. A kind woman she barely remembered taught her that. It was easier.

"I do not understand," the angel murmured, slowly lowering to crouch before the woman. She was in her twenties, maybe thirties. She was a well kept as one could expect when it seemed her only family was a young prostitute.

"Donny," Anna insisted, patting her brother's cold cheek. Confused, the angel looked to the young man.

"I have avenged him."

Anna stared at the angel, not understanding his words.

"Come," the angel tried once more. Anna shook her head, sitting more firmly beside her brother's body. She started to pull him into her arms, and the angel made a stuttering sound of revulsion, reaching to try and stop her. Anna froze at the touch of the angel and stared into his eyes.

"Donny."

The angel exhaled, closing his eyes. He couldn't understand her. He had to take her to safety. His eyes opened, focussed on Donny's dark hair. He reached his hand out, energy lighting from his fingers and leaping to the young man.

The only hope he had of understanding the woman was to restore her brother. He did so, slowly, letting his own force of life fuel that of the young man's until Donny let out a strangled cry that turned to sobs of relief to see his sister beside him.

"Oh, Anna. Anna. What are we going to do? I promised Mom... and look at us..." he whispered, holding her close.

"What is she saying?" the angel asked softly. Donny yelped, turning, trying to protect his sister with his slender and battered body before he found himself entranced by the beauty of the stranger.

"?What... I... Who are you?"

The angel tilted his head, watching the young man patiently.

"I avenged you. I came to take your sister to safety, but she would not come with me. I cannot understand her."

Donny blinked several times, then turned to Anna. He signed to her, and almost smiled as she responded in kind. He slowly and uneasily turned to the angel.

"She said, she can't go without me."

The angel nodded once. That made sense.

"Please. Don't take me from her. She's all I have, I'm all she has, she'll die without me..." Donny whispered, only to frown, to touch his throat. He stared at the angel in horror. He had been dead. His last customer had gone far too far.

He had been murdered, and left his sister to suffer in a whorehouse where none cared if the prostitutes lived or died.

"I avenged you," the angel nodded, "She will die without you."

Donny's face went stark white, his gaze falling to the bloodied sword the angel still carried.

"Now what?" Donny asked in a dry, rasping voice, hugging his sister tightly.

"I must take you to safety," the angel responded, almost confused. Donny's head tilted.

"We have nothing to offer. Except for me."

The angel knit his brow and regarded the young man.

"Explain. Many say this to me. Why?"

"Because... you helped us... you didn't have to. We should... should give you something in return," Donny replied, just as baffled as the angel.

Then, the angel smiled, and the miserable kennel of a room lit up golden. Anna gasped and laughed, clapping her hands at the beauty of it.

"Child. I could not understand your sister. Now I can. Let us go. I will take you to safety."

None challenged Donny as he led his sister from the brothel, carrying what few possessions they had. They walked in the wake of the tall and slender angel, his silvery hair tumbling over the ground behind him.

He was a strange angel. He had no wings, no halo, no harp. He carried a small mandolin on his back and two well used swords slung from lean hips. He exhaled purity and life, but seemed as still and cold as a machine.

He brought them to a bright, homey shelter, saw to their lodgings, and left them with a counselor. As he turned to walk away, Anna tumbled after him, hugging him with the exuberance and honesty of a child.

He paused, touching her hair gently. So carefully, he returned the embrace.

"Whaddaname?" she asked.

No one ever asked that before. He touched her cheek.

"I am Silvarth."

"Tankyoo Sil." Anna whispered.

Silvarth squeezed her hand, and turned to accept another hug from her brother. He left them in safety, and as he walked back into the streets, he realized:

He did understand.

For Prompt #3, the word is "Lacuna".

For those that don't know the meaning of the word (and I had to look it up), we provide a definition courtesy of dictionary.com to better aid your writing.

lacuna

Spell Syllables
Examples Word Origin
noun, plural lacunae (Show IPA), lacunas.
1.
a gap or missing part, as in a manuscript, series, or logical argument; hiatus.
2.
Anatomy. one of the numerous minute cavities in the substance of bone, supposed to contain nucleate cells.
3.
Botany. an air space in the cellular tissue of plants.

Wednesday
Thursday
Friday

Lucy looked at the piece of paper. Every morning she wrote down the day of the week. A prison habit. So she wouldn't get confused. Wouldn't lose track of the days.

But it was Sunday. It wasn't Saturday. It was Sunday. She'd forgotten to write it down the day before. She hadn't written anything down when she woke up.

Lucy stood at the counter, her pen poised over the paper. She knew why she hadn't remembered. She knew why she hadn't written anything down.

She'd woken up with Dair.

---
Sunday

I?ve been asked why I do it. Why I prowl through the night?s streets and tightly knit alleyways of the city. Why I find more peace and solace among the grim cobblestones between crumbling buildings and rusted iron bars.

To which I respond with:

You ever watch someone tie off their arm, teeth holding the end of the rubber wrapped around their arm, syringe in hand and injection slowly made? Waiting for that sweet blissful rush to kick in and take over? And then the warm sense of relaxation and security; the idea of protection; the dissipation of all fear, hunger, and anxiety sweeps over them. Nearly orgasmic the feeling is so ****ing intense. Their anger and frustration simply fading away like magic. Like a miracle. A ****ing miracle worker. That's what I am.

A miracle worker, but no saint.

Because when I can tell that their money runs dry? I give them one last free score. I was told once it was bad for business to kill off your clients. But they?re like cockroaches here. There will always be more.

And they know where to find me.

Just follow your nose.

Her fingers were tired. They scratched at her arms till she felt nothing, subdued her nerves into numbness. Bold, red blotches streaked up and down the petite appendages.

Stop scratching.

I can't. They keep calling. They want me to go home, again. I refuse to do it. Did it once, twice, even three times.

Do you think that you are the only one they want home?

No. Where are the others?

Dead.

Why?

Because all things die here.

She stopped to spread her hands out to the beast.

Come here. Are you scared that I will die?

It fell. A star fall of black and galaxies. She picked a piece of debris from the coat.

Yes but I will not leave. I will stay.

Even if I don't stop scratching?

I will eat you if you become infected.

Don't worry. I won't fester.

You say that now.

The beast fell asleep. She watched as night came calling through the curtains.

Lucy kept touching it. She kept looking at it. They weren't blisters. They were in a blister-like state. At the base of her fingers. On both hands. Red puffy skin. From swinging the sledge hammer. Where the wooden handle had rubbed against her soft palms with each swing.

Just a little bit of work. Helping out. Taking down the bathroom that Ketch was going to replace with something much nicer for her gallery. Just a little work. Just a few swings. Standing side by side with Fin.

It left her hands red. Red and puffy. Tender to the touch. Almost blistering. Almost.

Almost like they'd been in prison.

She let the water run from the faucet into her hands. She cupped them together, making a bowl, filling up with cold water, then releasing it into the basin. Over and over. The clear water magnifying the tender skin.

She closed her fists.

It would get better.

It would get better again.

It had to.

fester

1) (of a wound or sore) become septic; infected

2) (of a negative feeling or a problem) become worse or more intense, especially through long-term neglect or indifference. rankle, eat away, gnaw away, brew, smolder

January 1968

there are things that have to die
so other things can stay alive
the fire burns, it burns to give
it has to burn alive to live

The first four years of Benjamin?s life had been, more or less, uneventful.

His mother hadn?t been married when he was born. She was young, just eighteen. They lived in a shelter for a while, while Benjamin was a baby and too young to remember. Eventually, she cleaned up enough to get a job waitressing. Soon after that, they had a tiny little one bedroom in Whalley, one that was never clean and once in a while had a mouse, but usually Benjamin had enough to eat, and most of the time, at least for those couple of years after she stopped using, she cared for him.

She met Roland Miller when Benjamin was three years old. He was too young to understand completely, but even from what he could remember and comprehend, the courtship hadn?t lasted long, and before Benjamin really knew what was happening, he had a stepfather.

His mother had always called him by his full name. It was Roland that started calling him Ben.

They moved into a house with two storeys and even a basement. His mother kept working, often nights. It wasn?t quiet in the house those nights she was gone. Benjamin was scared of the noise when it was chaotic, and simply of his stepfather when they were alone.

Benjamin was four years old when he died in that basement.

His mother came home from work the next morning and maybe never noticed because she never said a word about it, but she only called him Ben from then on.

November 2013

is the question of the question
if the fire doesn't die
can the kid keep his eyes

?Adam?? Ben had promised him they would figure it out together. After all he?d put his son through because of his refusal to examine his own history, he had to hold to that promise, even when it tore at him.

Adam was thirteen now, able to handle this. Most thirteen year olds probably could, and what Ben had done to him made him able to handle so much more than other kids his age.

Adam could already tell, just from the look on his father?s face, that this was going to be a serious conversation - not just serious like he put his cop face on to scare him into calling home if he was out after school, but serious like it made his father anxious. There was only one thing that made his father anxious like this.

Adam dog-eared the page of the book he?d been reading, shut it, laid it in his lap. ?Dad, Jackie and I--?

?I know you told her about what you saw.? He gestured toward himself. ?Not-me? Benjamin. Said he was four. That?s fine, you know, that?s? That?s good.? Ben ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck, then sighed and sat down on the other side of the couch from his son. ?You know why they?re here, right?? His boys. The others in his head, the others that took Ben over like he was a puppet and didn?t even give him a say when or why or what happened while he was gone.

?Yeah,? and Adam shifted uncomfortably, frowning. He?d read articles about Dissociative Identity Disorder too, read the DSM-IV, watched YouTube videos. It wasn?t the disorder itself that bothered him most days; it was thinking about what must?ve happened to his father to have caused it in the first place, what unspeakable horror he?d been through as a child that was so traumatic it had broken his father into pieces. ?I know why. Because when you were a kid?? Adam had only been glancing at his father from time to time, but now he looked away and gestured meaninglessly - part because he didn?t have details (nor did he want them), and part because what could he really say? Even vague, it was a lot to think about.

Ben kept watching his son. ?Right. Well.? He winced a little; it almost looked like a smile, but it wasn?t, and it didn?t last anyway. ?When all that happened, it created them. Five of them,? and he bit his lip for the lie, then amended, ?of us.?

Adam felt his stomach lurch; he stared at his father, expressionless.

?When all that happened to Benjamin,? Ben backpedaled, but he couldn?t go any further; his expression turned close to distraught, and there was something strangled in his voice. He wasn?t real; he?d been born out of necessity, to keep his original self innocent. To shelter his child-self, to freeze him in time, before he could be destroyed. Ben wasn?t sure if that part of him had seen the light of day since he went inside and pushed Ben to the foreground. Ben didn?t know if he ever would again.

Adam was quiet a long time before he simply said, ?Oh.?

September 1975

you don't know what king we serve, boy
you don't know what things we employ

Ben woke up on a swing in the park. He?d missed a birthday - it was just a feeling he had. He was eleven now, he was sure.

The policeman that had found him took him to social services. He got put into a foster home. His mother had never reported him missing, not in the year and a half he was gone, and she and Roland had moved out of the two-storey house in Whalley. No one could find where they?d gone.

Ben wanted to see her again. Didn?t he? He knew he should want to, but every time he thought about her, he just saw her face looking down at him in the yard through the second floor window, and he felt nothing.

He couldn?t remember how he ended up in the park. He couldn?t remember where he?d been for that entire year. He couldn?t remember why his mother had looked so sad there in the window.

The fear, he could remember, terrible and real.

But he couldn?t remember what he was afraid of.

He wanted to remember.

Didn?t he?

October 2010

be careful of what you wish for
and be careful around the firelight

What Ben remembered, he didn't want to.

How many times had he lied about it? How many times until a lie becomes truth?

I don't know-- I want to know!

In his most open moments, he knew that wasn't true. He said it, because he knew it was the only chance to stop the blackouts, to save his marriage, his job, to get some control over the pieces of his personality that weren't him, that weren't Ben Sullivan.

But if he was honest with himself, he didn't want that. If he was honest, all he really wanted was to not think about it anymore, ever again. What he really wanted were those angels and demons to cooperate well enough without his interference, so he could spend his time awake as ignorant as possible of the others that took turns with him.

If he was honest with himself, he'd admit he was never honest with himself, with anyone, ever, and what he wished for was that no one would ever call him on it and the memories could fester, the same as they had for years. If he rots, he rots - if he burns, he burns.

It's worth it, if the past rots too, undisturbed, half-buried. If the stench of it surfaces from time to time, if he blacks out and goes away because it's too much once in a while, it's worth it.

Better to let it lie than disturb the corpse and bury it all proper. A body's a body - what's the difference if it has a proper burial? Just let it rot where it falls.

1971

and be careful around the bright bright light

Hot, heat, all over. Blinding light up above - look there, look there, and there's nothing else to see.

The sound of speech is wishywashy and muffled. Underwater, faraway even when the volume rises. Not words anymore, just sounds underneath the blood-rush in his ears.

Pain, torn apart, pain-- can't process. Can't understand. Can't describe.

The light is so brightwhite it leaves dark spots behind his eyelids, leaves black holes in his vision even when his eyes are open. Bright, bright light up above, maybe he's dying, maybe it's Jesus, maybe it's over soon, maybe it's Heaven--

The darkness isn't Hell. It isn't anything, because he isn't there anymore. It's just nothing.

2015

but the fire never died
so the kid lost his eyes
that's how it goes, baby
that's how it goes

It ate away at him until there were holes inside.

Once his shrink had said something about how once a man reaches a certain age, he should be able to look back at his life and read like a well-crafted novel. ?Except in your case,? he?d prompted, and Ben had fallen right in with, ?There?s chapters missing.?

Moth-eaten, rotted away. Sometimes it was only a line or two, sometimes it really may as well be an entire chapter. One part. An entire volume, one time; over a year?s worth of memory he should have and didn?t.

Why dig up the past? Let the corpse fall where it does, let it rot where it lay.

But the wound inside never healed, and it gnawed at Ben from the inside out, tunneled in his memories.

It ate away at him until there was a hole inside, shaped like a four year old boy named Benjamin.

It festered until Ben was the walking dead.

Five paces.

Imprisonment didn?t suit her. Three more hours until the guard changed. It was his fault.

Six paces.

Her cellmate didn?t react to her movement. That?s because he was dead. He?d succumbed to the rot a day ago, but no one had answered her calls to have him removed.

Two paces, a detour, two paces.

The door at the end of the hall remained closed, the only air she could recirculate was the air she shared with the corpse.

Six paces.

She could feel Fox outside, his restless roaming just beyond their normal range of communication. The reynard projected reassurance, but reassurance didn?t settle her stomach.

Five paces.

It was his fault. They?d gone over the plan. Prepared every detail, but he?d neglected the due diligence. Neglected to confirm the watch schedule.

Six paces.

Now he was dead and once she got out of here she?d have to change her face. Nevermind that the slave trader now knew his life was sought by the resistance.

Two paces, a detour, two paces.

Amun Re would be furious to have to waste resources. She?d have to get out on her own. Three more hours until the guard changed. She?d make one of them her?s and walk out the front door.

Six paces.

No matter how she traced the edges of the room she couldn?t get far enough away from the smell of him. Imprisonment didn?t suit her.

Ben was a liar.

Ben was a liar, and a fake, and manipulative, and above all, above everything else, he was always true.

Not true in that he told the truth (there was 50/50 chance there), but true in that every lie he told, every question he sidestepped, every problem he brushed off and ignored - it was never malicious. It was just who he was. It had always been like that. It was survival.

It destroyed friendships, partnerships, a marriage. It kept him distant from others - outside looking in, though it was peering through smudgy glass, into a boarded up window. Maybe just a glimpse. Maybe the glimpse was just a show, anyway.

I'm fine.

I'm okay.

Nothing we can't handle.

It wasn't me.

Don't know what you're talking about.

But he kept doing it. Over and over and over and over. No matter the cost.

It was who he was. Lies always had truth to them, and if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

It wasn't broken.

Truth or a lie?

Halcyon

Halcyon

Once there was a girl with hair as white blonde as the clouds on a sunny day. She ran barefoot through mountain woods, the hems of her dresses snarled and stained with grass. Each afternoon she came home to the manor outside the village, like an alley cat to the call of food from the affectionate but exasperated house steward.

Once there was a girl who didn?t know a day spent in hunger or squalor. She would be fed, and scrubbed red, and presented to the master of the house for lessons. She knew not a mother?s love, but she knew the joy of a hard-won approval. The satisfaction of bringing a small smile to a face so draped in shadow when she could ask a question that proved her grasp of a lesson.

Once there was a girl that did not possess a name or the burden of a heritage. She knew nothing of war, of the games played for power. The quiet life of learning gave her a picture of the worlds beyond between the pages of a book. Her imagination vivid, her daydreams filled with stories wherein she explored places unknown, people rare of character, and things impossible.

Once there was a girl inept at magic who found pleasure in settling for something less grand. She planned to work hard to contribute to the household that had taken her in, even if she couldn?t inherit the talents of its lord. There came to town then one of those people from her daydreams. Wild and new, she was not afraid as others were. She fell in love.

Once.

The best kind of chocolate.

When being naughty is worth getting caught.

The pain felt from ceaselessly, obsessively wiggling a loose tooth.

Daydreams versus reality.

Temporary escapes.

Predicted endings. New beginnings.

Insecurities that are rationally labeled but still sneak in under the door.

Feeling hope and uncertainty at the same time.

Concern expressed in the tiniest glimpses, afraid to show more.

The price of happiness.

New prompt posted, due 8/23

This writing prompt is a Haiku Challenge. The subject is open to whatever you'd like as long as your post is in haiku format. Post as many as you'd like. Due September 13th.

Here we stand; bold, brash.
Dreams, reality.
They clash, and we rise.

That stone is heavy.
Let it lie, let it rest some.
Put it aside now.

That sickly sweet smell.
Horrific screams fill the air.
You knew she was there.

Some Words

I hold you gently,
Curled in the well of my tongue.
I won't let you out.

Rage

Ware, lest clouds roll in.
The storm cannot distinguish
Innocence from sin.

________


Sirocco

Hot metal and blood,
Desert perfume and spices,
Dreams blown down to bone.

________


Insurmountable

Seeking at night in
foreign constellations, I
can't defeat distance.

________


Tension

Teasing words, oh
Glances full, which one of us
Will just let go first?

________


Familiar

Two minds, two hearts, one
Granting control to the lost.
Kin of a new kind.

A wind, soft and sweet.
Tender, caressing my skin.
This, my Love, is you.

New Topic: Post Mortem. Due October 4th.

New topic is up: Indulgence. Due October 25th.

just saw this!

!!!!!!!

:D

Long time no see!!! Good to hear from you!

RhyDin, Nine Years Ago

"Vee."

The word slithered through the dark shadows of the run down building, trash and debris littered amongst sleeping bags and the random collection of personal items that accumulated each time someone new popped a squat.

It had been serving as a way-station to transients for many years. It was where Vee held court, lording over the misfits and runaways, the people that society deemed untouchable.

"Vee!" the hiss louder this time, but still the only sound to be heard was a dull scratching. It took many moments to find the source, not even realizing that it was his own hand causing that dull ache just under his collarbone where dull nails rubbed a familiar track. Painful pressure was building behind his eyes and knees felt wobbly. He wondered if he would be able to make it home before collapsing in a pile of sweat and vomit.

Bloodshot eyes blinked blearily and he was about to turn away, abandon the search, when a voice drifted over his left shoulder. "Ah, Fin. How long as it been?" The question was deceptively silky and what was left of the Scot's faculties were screaming a warning to watch himself. "Eh...I..." A response struggled to the surface while he shuffled back a step, turning to face Vee. "I know tha' I owe ye coin..." He backed up another step when Vee's smile grew, cut sharply by the deep shadows that obscured half his face. "You do, you do," Vee agreed, advancing inexorably toward the retreating Fin. "And I always get what I'm owed."

"I will get ye the coin, I swear it," the words bit out as a lump of fear rose in his gullet, making speech difficult. "I will, I...." Tip of his tongue darted out to wet cracked lips before he continued with the boldness only a desperate addict could muster. "Can I ha' some?" asking in a tremulous voice, a wild eyed hope springing to life in his shadowed eyes.

Vee's hand shot out and Fin flinched, shrinking back but it never landed. A moment passed and then another before the Scot dared to turn his face and peek. Vee stared at him, the man's mouth curling slightly at the corners. "No...you know what? It's your lucky fucking day. Here," tossing a tiny bag of discolored herb to the floor. Fin scurried forward to snatch it up greedily, mouth already watering as it was clutched to his chest. Vee had to try a few times to get his attention. "Hey! I'm talking to you," stepping forward quickly to deliver a chop to the side of Fin's head, the dazed Scot lurching sideways. "You come back here tomorrow at midday and wait for me. We'll talk about how you're gonna pay me back. If I have to look for you..." The man's eyes narrowed, not even bothering to finish that threat because his temper was well known.

Fin shook his head briskly and it morphed into a nod - no, he wouldn't dare to hide form Vee; yes, he would be back here tomorrow. "Good, now get the fuck away from me, you're disgusting."

The Scot darted toward the nearest exit while Vee watched coldly. A flip-style phone was pulled out of his pocket and lifted to his ear. "It's Vee. Got another one."

BUMP.

There's still a week left to write your responses to the latest word prompt, Push. Check out the first post in this thread for details.