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Noise is a constant. Organic, fabricated, rhythmic, chaotic. Steps on the stairs outside the door - stomping, running, shuffling, stumbling. Voices, all the time, at all hours. Shouting. Laughing. Crying. Cursing. Screaming. Fists and chairs and headboards against walls. Water groaning and knocking through pipes. Wind and rain and street noise seeping through windows and past open doors. Floorboards and walls popping and creaking with age and movement. Vermin scavenging. Radios. Record players. Doors.
His dreams, when he has them, are mercifully silent.
Here Comes the Rain
Rain cleanses nothing here. What it does do is wipe away the layers of prevarication that people insist on constructing. It brings out the truth of personalities, dissolving false courtesies and empty promises - the longer a person stands in rain, the more honest he will become. It does the same for the city, eliminating the garish colors and deceptive grays that gloss over flaws, distract from
Miscellanea[Ten challenge fic drabbles, multiple fandoms.]
A double-breasted suit straight out of the 1940s, made to measure. Suspenders and a stubbornly white dress shirt. Scarf at the throat, always in a knot. Always. Brown leather gloves scarred at knuckles and fingertips. Brown fedora, drawn low over invisible eyes. Trench coat with seemingly bottomless pockets. Old but well-pedigreed boots showing miles upon miles of walking (and climbing, and fighting) underneath their careful polish they've been re-soled at least twice. The mask, the only truly alien aspect, covering everything in shifting black and white shapes that only appear unreadable.
And only Dan is allowed past any of it.
"You should never have kissed me, Red. Hee!"
"It wasn't on p-purpose, you idiot c-c-clown. How was I to know you'd b-be here tkkxxnt-too?
Genghis Whenever we were bad my mother used to take us to the mall to see Genghis Kahn. They kept him in a dusty diorama of a Mongolian steppe, all tall grass and yurts. He sat on a throne of bone (well, plastic shaped like bone), scowling in incomprehension at the American kids who flocked around him like startled lemmings. My mother would usually push us toward him, saying things like “Tell him what you did to your father’s stamp collection.” Genghis would give a grunt, spit a wad of phlegm onto the tall grass, and give us a wizened, wrinkled grimace, as if he had to go to the bathroom.
He terrified me.
My brother couldn’t get enough of him.
When my brother got caught in my mother’s evening dress, my mother grabbed us both and dragged us to Genghis. It was a slow day, and we were the only kids crowding him. “Tell him what you did,” my mother hissed a
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More