...all long pig, all the time... (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
froodle) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
eerieindiana2015-08-12 11:24 pm
froodle) wrote in eerieindiana2015-08-12 11:24 pm
Devon-centric Eerie, Indiana fic
So, have some fic about Devon, I guess:
Devon Wilde walked through the Eerie Cemetery, and his feet made no sound on the gravel pathways. The brutal heat of an Indiana summer beat down, baking the earth and crisping the grass until both were the same uniform shade of biscuit-brown, but the sun's glare slid over and around and through him, and he was unaffected.
He watched the two people who stood beside a stone cherub, its hands clasped and face upturned and pleading, and he tried to feel curious about them.
He thought that the cherub was significant in a way that all the other statues and headstones and mausoleums lacked, but he had forgotten why, or else he had never known, or perhaps he had only made it up. Still, it itched at the back of his mind, and so he returned to it now and then, because perhaps if he played at being interested in something, he would remember what the real thing felt like.
When he had been warm and vital, all manner of things had interested him in all manner of ways. There was music, and though he no longer remembered any of it, he thought that it had seemed very important at the time. There was a skateboard, which he was positive had been terribly exciting, although he struggled to recall precisely what "exciting" felt like.
And there had most definitely been a girl, and at the thought of her, the memory of a thrill rose in what he supposed must be the memory of his stomach. He couldn't quite see her face any more; she unravelled piece by piece, a little more each day, though she lingered longer than the rest.
Now she was only a great shining mass of dark, glossy hair, a broad ribbion tied in a bow, and a smile that half-hid itself even as it emerged, a little shy, even a little embarrassed, and he remembered the words but not the sensations that they described.
There was a necklace with little golden heart wrapped around the cherub's clasped hands. It hadn't been there before, or maybe it had and he had forgotten it until now. As he watched, the girl - dark haired, shining, sad-eyed - took the necklace and handed it to the boy who stood with her.
A hot, dry breeze swept through the cemetery, rustling among the tree branches. It's jagged edges caught at Devon, worried at him, pulling him apart in wisps and tatters. He let it spin him up and away, above the gravestones and the neatly maintained walkways between them, where a small boy stood and watched as the last remnants of Devon Wilde dissipated against the hot, brilliant blue of a cloudless sky.
Devon Wilde walked through the Eerie Cemetery, and his feet made no sound on the gravel pathways. The brutal heat of an Indiana summer beat down, baking the earth and crisping the grass until both were the same uniform shade of biscuit-brown, but the sun's glare slid over and around and through him, and he was unaffected.
He watched the two people who stood beside a stone cherub, its hands clasped and face upturned and pleading, and he tried to feel curious about them.
He thought that the cherub was significant in a way that all the other statues and headstones and mausoleums lacked, but he had forgotten why, or else he had never known, or perhaps he had only made it up. Still, it itched at the back of his mind, and so he returned to it now and then, because perhaps if he played at being interested in something, he would remember what the real thing felt like.
When he had been warm and vital, all manner of things had interested him in all manner of ways. There was music, and though he no longer remembered any of it, he thought that it had seemed very important at the time. There was a skateboard, which he was positive had been terribly exciting, although he struggled to recall precisely what "exciting" felt like.
And there had most definitely been a girl, and at the thought of her, the memory of a thrill rose in what he supposed must be the memory of his stomach. He couldn't quite see her face any more; she unravelled piece by piece, a little more each day, though she lingered longer than the rest.
Now she was only a great shining mass of dark, glossy hair, a broad ribbion tied in a bow, and a smile that half-hid itself even as it emerged, a little shy, even a little embarrassed, and he remembered the words but not the sensations that they described.
There was a necklace with little golden heart wrapped around the cherub's clasped hands. It hadn't been there before, or maybe it had and he had forgotten it until now. As he watched, the girl - dark haired, shining, sad-eyed - took the necklace and handed it to the boy who stood with her.
A hot, dry breeze swept through the cemetery, rustling among the tree branches. It's jagged edges caught at Devon, worried at him, pulling him apart in wisps and tatters. He let it spin him up and away, above the gravestones and the neatly maintained walkways between them, where a small boy stood and watched as the last remnants of Devon Wilde dissipated against the hot, brilliant blue of a cloudless sky.