The Flicker of My Flame
Today’s post is based on a writing prompt I shared in the Daily Drafts & Dialogues chat thread: Stream of Consciousness. Keep reading to see what I wrote, and to access more writing prompts.
What I wrote below is based on the following writing prompt: Write a piece of fiction or nonfiction that follows an uninterrupted stream of consciousness.
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The Flicker of My Flame
The candles always burned unevenly after midnight, as they reached the end of their wicks, and the prayers they represented. Sister Agnes insisted it was due to the intermittent draft that wafted through the cracks in the stones a few paces behind the altar, but I could feel something greater at work. Something that was far more sinister than divine. Something that could escape and evade corporeal bounds to steal or grant the flames of our prayers, our inner most desires, our collective conscience. Though I would never confess that to Sister Agnes or anyone else, of course. No one other than God.
At the mere thought of evil lurking inside this sacred space, I recross myself and fall to my knees, clasping my hands together so tightly my knuckles start to turn white inside the sleeves of my habit. But as I stare at the flicker of my flame, the saints on the wall start to dance, distracting me from the prayer I intend to say, for Clara. And all I can recall are our debauched nights out on the town full of sin and demons and self-loathing.
I hadn’t prayed for my oldest friend in months, desperately needing to cleanse my soul, as well as my mind and body, of our shared, sordid past. Which also meant I had forsaken her for—
‘Dear Lord,’ I announce internally, now staring at the bottom instead of the top of my flame, trying like hell to focus.
‘You know Clara has a gentle soul. Also, sorry for saying hell just now. I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed in here, is it? Still, I hope it doesn’t—’
I close my eyes, determined to get through this. For Clara. For myself. For a multitude of other reasons that supposedly God, being all-knowing, is supposed to already know about, so this is—
I clear my throat.
‘I am still learning the depth and magnitude of your patience and grace, Lord.’
Yes, that’s much better.
‘Which is why I am asking you to extend them to Clara now.’
I feel a taut pull in my left knee, my bad knee, so shift the bulk of my weight to my right, holding back tears of pain.
‘She is lost and hurting and knows not what she does, mostly because what gaslit strung-out heroin addict living in her pimp’s rat-infested basement apartment would be able to …sorry, I won’t go there right now, but still, I just know deep down in my heart that you can help save her the same way you saved me that night, almost a year ago now, when somehow I ended up on the front steps of this very church, around this very time of night, though I had never even been within a block of a church in my entire life, other than that one time my mother’s supposed-to-be pedo second husband, who is behind bars now for what he did so also I should properly thank you for that, though that will have to be a different prayer because now I am praying for Clara, who I just know is battered and bruised, inside and out, the way I was that super dark and mysterious night I ended up here, on the steps outside, covered in vomit and who knows what else, like a zombie needing redemption, though I don’t want to think of that because it makes me feel like a zombie when I take communion which I know is twisted, the thought of eating your body and drinking your blood like I’m a zombie, but anyway I guess, when by your mercy, Sister Catherine saw me and hurried me inside and nursed me back to health that night, and so many nights after it, though I cursed and wailed and protested and made a mess with all my… until she helped rid the demons from my body, which let me rid the demons from my mind, kinda, since I’m still working on that every day as much as I can so I can rid the demons from my spirit too, other than yours, so you are the only spirit living inside me, the holy spirit, which probably can’t comingle with that cheap gin my old pimp, who is still Clara’s pimp, made me drink at least eight shots of every night to loosen up, he said, even after all the lines he made me take, like wouldn’t let me get clients until I did take them, because, well you know all that already so there’s no need to rehash any of it, though for whatever reason, while we’re on the subject, I’m assuming you’d like your spirit to be a single-malt neat Scotch, amiright or wrong, because you seem, well I don’t know how to describe it, but when I do rid myself of all these demons, which are still there, I know, but not for too much longer I hope, because when they’re gone, I just know I’ll be a little closer to deserving your love and grace, which like I said, Clara needs right now, Lord, please, if she’s not already dead, pleeease don’t let her be dead, because she’s still young like me and has her whole life ahead of her and I just can’t stand the thought of it being wasted on all those things that she can’t help right now, Lord, seriously she is not in her right mind and needs help, just like I did, and all I can do is pray for her now because her brother Jimmy, who is also her pimp, the one who goes by Sex God, which I know is sick but he’s a sick person and probably not worth saving like Clara, though that’s obviously up to you, and I don’t want to think about… well, him or his muscle Teardrop, who I know for a fact saw me on the playground in front of the church yesterday pushing little Penelope on the swing, that sweet child whose mother is not in a good way, though I will pray for that another time because now I need you to help save Clara, just like you saved me, who I know her brother will try to use to lure me back now that Teardrop’s probably already told him where I am, and I know I need to be strong and have faith but I’m really freakin’ sca—’
The side door to the church slams shut and my eyes bulge out of my skull, as large and alert as they used to feel when I was on all those uppers.
While the church was technically open 24/7 for prayer, only those parishioners who have the keypad code are able to enter at such a late hour.
I hear footsteps approaching, too heavy to be one of the sisters. I hold my breath, uneasy, then turn my head away from the flames and toward the footsteps just in time to see him appear.
A young man, perhaps thirty. A stranger to me. But not the church, apparently. Otherwise, how could he have gotten in so late?
He’s wearing a charcoal-grey coat wet with rain. His dark hair is damp and tousled away from his forehead. And he’s dripping water all over the ornate Persian rug on the floor.
He’s handsome in that dangerous way some tall, crystal-blue-eyed, high-cheekboned, thick-bearded men are handsome, the worst kind of men, who always have a gleam of devilish mischief in their stare.
My body, shamefully, remembers itself, not full of desire, but something more akin to recognition and regret.
A woman like me, who knows how to read bodies and eyes and all the sins and secrets they betray better than she knows her own mind, knows who this man is and why he’s here and exactly what he wants, even though we’ve never met.
His gaze trails the length of my figure when I stand, lingering for a beat too long over my chest and lips, which I don’t have the opportunity to open before he speaks first.
“Hello, Scarlet,” he says with a wicked grin, “I am here to collect.”
[Write what comes next, then share what you come up with in the comments. ]
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© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is a piece of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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