eerieindiana | Better Weird than Dead: An Eerie, Indiana Fic Fest

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(I was talking to Froodle and we decided this is totally necessary. I apologize for the craptastic banner)

eeriefest

What it is: A fest of Eerie Fic! Including Eerie, Indiana and Eerie, Indiana: The Other Dimension. Just comment with your prompts and write for any prompt that speaks to you. That easy!

Rules:

1) Only one prompt per comment, please, but feel free to comment as many times as you want
2) Prompts can be anything. Song lines, words, ideas, pictures; anything goes. Just no NSFW pics
2) Prompts can be filled an unlimited number of times
3) All ratings and genres allowed
4) Rate all stories in the subject line of the comment (i.e., Title of Story, Rating)
6) All pairings and gen fic allowed.
7) Have fun. No, really, it's a rule. It's required. If you aren't having fun the Garbage men will come for you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

friendof_dorothy

Marshall stared at him blankly for a moment, unblinking and unmoving. Simon starred back, torn between glad to have said it and worried he may have just lost his best friend. The pen is still in his hand, the ink is spreading from the tip into an asymmetrical circle under the nib. If he doesn’t lift it off the paper soon it might go through onto the wooden desk underneath.

“So, Simon.” He says, finally.

“Yeah. Simon.” He nodded his head and lifted the pen. He crossed out ‘she’ and wrote ‘Simon’ instead.

“I can do that.” Marshall nodded his head, once, twice, and then Simon dropped heavily onto a beanbag, sinking through almost to the floor. A quiet moment, but it’s not tense at all. Marshall is re-writing the whole entry, he realized, as the scribbling and scratching from the table didn’t stop. “I don’t know why I was surprised. It makes way more sense for a ten-year-old boy to want to hang out with me than a ten-year-old girl.” He’s not ten anymore, in a few months, he’s going to be eighteen.

“That’s sexist,” Simon said, but it’s not serious. He knows what Marshall is trying to say. “But I know what you mean. If I’m Simon now I was Simon then.”

“And you’ll probably still be Simon tomorrow.”

“Maybe. Maybe tomorrow I’ll shed my human form, embrace non-corporeal life, and become a God of like. Un-returned VHS tapes gathering dust under Janet’s bed.”

“I think you’re underselling yourself. You could be God of at least six different varieties of mushroom, the smell of fresh-cut grass AND the un-returned VHS tapes under Janey’s bed.”

“Now you’re sucking up because I called you sexist.”

“Is it working?”

“Dunno. Do you think I could also be God of chocolate fudge pop tarts?”

“I guess but why would you want too when iced strawberry is right there?”

“Iced strawberry tastes like cough medicine.”

“Geez. You think you know a guy.” Marshall grumbled, and Simon settled into the beanbag.

“Are you going to change all the evidence locker entries?” He asked as Marshall flipped some pages back.

“I have too. They’re incorrect, it would be irresponsible not to.” Simon stood up and grabbed a pen from the macaroni decorated pencil holder that probably used to belong to Edgar.

“You know what they say. Many hands make light work.” Anyway, there were worse places to spend an afternoon than revisiting old adventures with your best friend.