01- Brief Belonging

by Fahiru

The land lady had told him there was a dog that frequented the apartment complex. He didn't mind, he didn't need quiet to work. He'll beg for food, she told him, he'll bleed you dry.

There's nothing wrong with a little bit of compassion, he said. There's always been some dog or another wherever I go, he said.

He took the room.

There was a low ceiling and chipping plaster, a tattered shower curtain and dripping faucet. Sirens and laughter floating through the window.

He covered the walls with paintings, re-plastering the crumbling walls with frescoes of memories and dead dreams; he brought in a desk and a hammock and put a bowl of dog food outside his door.

He couldn't write stories,

not like her

but he drew from his dreams to sketch a world that no one had been to, yet everyone had seen. He drew memories and songs and hopes that went un-uttered.

And he checked the empty dog bowl, and filled it up again.

He began to draw people too, but not on the paper, he drew them to his door. Little street urchins who had seen the color bursting from his window to the streets. Tired homemakers who wanted a little framed bit of flowers that would never wilt, a little pocketful of fold-able magic, a spot of color for their gray lives.

He was asked to paint murals at elementary schools.

And when the dog bowl was empty, he would fill it.

He got a commission to design wedding invitations,

And he bought a bag of dog biscuits, too.

Soon he could afford to move to a better complex, but he bought a dog bed instead and left it outside his door. He began to hear a snoring in the halls at night.

He got a picture book of childhood adventures published.

He left the door open a crack and brought the bowl and bed inside.

And he woke up to a scruffy bundle of white fur sleeping on his chest, and it was like walking into one of his own dreams.

A fruit stand with free puppies. A birthday. A girl with bright eyes.

A kingdom. A death.

What are you doing here, he asks, why are you here.

He stops leaving food outside the door, and the magic fades.

He asks the complex-leaser about the dog, he tries to find the owners.

That big black dog that lives around the complex. That dog don't come from nowhere.

No, the white dog. The small white dog.

Oh, she grumbles. Last landlord you had said they might come around. Seems that dog's been following you for quite sometime, yep. Every leaser a'fore you says he's been there.

You're used to dogs, ain't ya?

He can't draw. His paint had dried up. Orders are piling and he has no magic in his fingers.

So he writes a name on the dog dish, and puts it outside his door.

And Prince Terrien comes back, bringing the magic with him.

(A/N: I guess this is confusing for anyone unfamiliar with the story, or even someone who knows everything about it. I'm not in the habit of making much sense.

This has lots of artistically messy grammar and punctuation, because I can. Also, the tense sort of shifts in a catching-up-to-the-present sort of way, but I don' t know how well that works. I'll come back and fix up the ending later.

Written for Twelve Shots of Summer '15, first alternate prompt "Unexpected Guest".)