closed: @sugcrpill· location: Pilgrims Square — Halloween Event

His father had always said this holiday was for scoundrels and those that were godless. Dakota and his mother would nod along as they carved pumpkins on the porch, saving the seeds for later and even one year using the insides to make pumpkin pie. The memory makes him chuckle as he helps some of the local younglings carve their own pumpkins at the craft station, skilled hands maneuvering the knife around tricky corners before plucking the piece of shell out and tossing it into the pile. “There ya go, darlin’.” He smiles, at the little girl, her small voice hollering out a thank you before she wanders off with her pumpkin to finish decorating it. He lifts his hat to turn it backwards, trying to be wary not to smudge the face paint as he stands up to excuse himself for a quick smoke break. 

He often curses himself for ever picking up such a nasty habit, but he isn’t fool enough to make a notion to quit. Not right now at least. So instead he wanders over to a more empty part of the festivities to light up his cigarette, head tilting as he spot a familiar face in the crowd. At least, he’s sure she is. Her features are ringing bells in his head, but he can’t quite place them, but it’s too late for him to look away when he realizes he’s been staring and now is being stared at. “Sorry!”  He quickly speaks, taking an equally fast puff of his cigarette. “Thought you were someone I knew!” 

in her many years maren had grown fond of human tradition. however like with all things there were some she favored more than others, but she’d always found exceptional delight in the traditions of all hallows’ eve. maren had often frequented town gatherings dedicated to the human traditions, wanting to fit in with the crowd but also wanting to watch the mélange of people from all over town who attended such things. the costumes brought her a deeply felt joy, one that made the broad smile on her face almost permanently irreversible. in moments like these it was when she was reminded of why she wanted to live amongst the humans in the first place. rapturous laughter and joyful gleams surrounded her, and yet she found herself with her sights set on one person in particular. dakota. he was on his own at the edge of all the festivities, standing underneath a street lamp that was almost acting as if it were his own personal spotlight. the light above had cast a shadow over his features but she could see the ember glowing from the cigarette between his lips. maren had already been staring for a noticeably long time before she caught herself and began to look in another direction, hoping that she might still be able to play it off. no such compassion would be afforded however as he had called out to her just then as she tries to glance away from him. “hmm,” she turns back, cheeks flush from embarrassment as she’d surely been caught by him. “oh it’s no problem at all. i’ve been told before that i’ve got one of those familiar faces.” her feet urge her to move towards him but she stays still, her stomach filling with nervous excitement. “or maybe you’ve just seen me around town before. i’ve lived around here for a couple of years now. i work at the flower shop not too far from here.” 

he takes a long drag straight into his lungs– and for a second, he feels nostalgic for the days when it stung still. the headrush, the giddiness that came from his first cigarette… that came from the first time he tried anything, really. at some point, it all stops being about fun. he flicks the cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, his free hand coming up to rub at his face. he’s gotten so thin, lately.

these moments of clarity come few and far between– and usually with something attached to them. today, he’s realized what’s been bothering him.

“It’s not–” he pauses. his hand drops. his eyes dart around the room before fixating on a pile of laundry.  it’s not a big deal, he was about to say– but he knows he’s got to get it out eventually. “Look– uhhh– you know when you gotta say something and you don’t have any fuckin’ clue how to say it? Like your mouth stops working and–”

you’re putting it off

“–and your brain gets all fuckin’ messy… stops working.” like his brain isn’t always messy, these days. loud, dulled only for shorter and shorter periods of time.

“You promise not to freak out if I tell you something weird–??”

“Yeahhhh…” he mumbles– still listening, but he’s never been a master of multitasking. the first cut is already crooked, but darcy is absolutely sure that it gives it some character. the second, cut, however… well– he’ll fix it. “Yeah, yeah…”

there’s something in these moments that gives him a feeling– a fullness, almost, that flutters his heart and sits coiled up warmly in his belly. the years have taught him that to try to fill it is to scare it away, so he’ll call it a nice surprise when it pops up.

a few cuts careful later and soon the window is shaping up. he gets on his knees, squishing some of the aforementioned guts under his him, to assure that everything is straight– though not quite what someone would call neat and tidy. the thing about darcy is that he’s never been good at neat and tidy.

“Yeah, my first idea was live, laugh, love, but my handwriting sucks.” he looks to her, a wide grin on his face. proud of his own joke. waiting for a laugh.

@sugcrpill

LOCATION: a borderline filthy apartment that a younger darcy calls home

YEAR: 2017

AGE: 26

he has a fucking hangnail again. they happen almost every day– and no, he won’t stop fucking messing with it. call it nervous energy– because a lotta shit is happening right now. he could use a little bump, but his pockets are empty and his check (fat, by his description) doesn’t come in until tomorrow. whatever’s left of his stash was smoked a few hours ago, so he’s settled for a plastic cup of something pulled from the front of the cupboard with a little juice mixed in.

his scarred and shaking hands (it’s just cold in the apartment– the AC’s broken, or something) fumbling for a crumpled up pack in his pocket. he manages to get one out, jaw shifting back and forth with the effort of such a simple action. sparking up is muscle memory, but something about it feels wrong. everything feels wrong. he’s got a lump in his tightened stomach. his chest feels empty. light from the open window illuminates a gaunt face, reddened eyes sunken in.

“You know I love you, right–??”

“Tried it.” he mutters– not quite loud enough to hear. call it a self-reminder– you can never forget what you’ve done, you motherfucker. honestly, it’s one of the nicer regrets to pop up around this time of year. “Hehe, bees. I like that shit– you’re funny.”

he takes a step back at the gutted gourd and gives another half shrug. “Probably like…” a pause. he’s overthinking. too many ideas, all gleaned from the ‘hell hole’ that darcy affectionately refers to as twitter. “You ever seen that one where it’s like a little pumpkin inside a big pumpkin and the big pumpkin is like a really fucked up house–?? Like Star Wars with the guy inside of the big horse thing.”

“I dunno man, maybe it feels good. There was that Reddit guy with the cantaloupe and shit…” a beat, another slap of guts against the paper plate. looking down at the hole, he shrugs his shoulders. he’s about to open his mouth again when another thought catches him– “Not like, shit–” but he gives up on the sentiment entirely just as quickly.

“So what’re you gonna do–??” he looks over at her, “I’m not good at this kinda thing so I’m just gonna freeball it.” that’s the phrase, right?

@sugcrpill​

location: a run down apartment that darcy calls home

darcy has never considered himself great in the realm of arts and crafts. anything detailed like that, really– god forbid you ask him to fold a fuckin’ fitted sheet. it’s like his brain turns off, and not in that nostalgic way. right now, he’s fumbling with the innards of a pumpkin, squishing viscera between his fingers– but he wouldn’t call it viscera, he’d call it,

“Guts…” he says to himself as he plops it down on a paper plate beside him, “You think anybody ever, like, fucks this stuff?”

open starter || eli @arst-starters

he’s fast, but not quite fast enough to catch the leash slipping through his fingers. the dog darts faster than his three legs can keep up, bumbling on concrete. it’s cute, but there’s something about the grey hairs in his muzzle that suggest perhaps one should stop him. when he finally does come to a stop, eli is on his tail (haha).

“He’s friendly–!” is the first thing to come out of his mouth, along with a laugh that says please don’t react poorly, “Maybe too friendly…”