Hello, I might as well be called Eric, and this is where I'll be posting my fanfiction. It'll mainly be for the Lord of the Flies fandom, but possibly some other stuff too. If you have any prompts, feel fee to send them my way!
Okay once exams are over I really want to start posting more so like send in prompts, or song lyrics, or songs, or starter lines for fics, or anything and I'll put it on the list!
It's been a while since I've written anything for this fandom.
Why did he do it?
He wondered that each night, staring up at the ceiling, feeling sealed into a coffin. He wished he was. Buried beneath the earth, with Baker and Olson and Stebbins. And Parker and Abraham and Barkovitch.
And Pete.
He didn't even like to think of him, but he couldn't get him out of his mind. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw a scar slashed into pale skin and saw the barrel of a gun shoved against a dark head of hair.
That's why he didn't sleep. He was too afraid to shut his eyes. He couldn't help but hear his own voice, his own desperation, begging them to shoot him instead. To let Pete go.
Salty tears slipped down his cheeks, and he let out a breath, his grief echoing off the walls of his coffin. He rested a hand over his eyes, the tears falling more quickly now.
Sure, he had won. What did that matter in the end anyways?
So what if he had won the Prize?
It wasn't as if the Major could give him what he wanted anyways.
I've posted this before I think but this is sort of an edit and I fixed it up a bit.
Link: x
And now the blood was on his hands, his face, his neck, and had soaked through the cheap fabric of his striped shirt, the one his mother has laid out so lovingly ages ago. Ages ago… He was an old man now, hobbling along. Zigging and zagging, like a beggar looking for change. Slanting towards the crowd- please help me I just want to sit down sit down and sleep and maybe I don’t really want to die at all- and then jerking away.
And Baker realized he was disgusting, like the kids used to say at school. He was disgusting and stupid and pathetic and worthless. Worthless and weird and foolish and soon he would just be blood and brains splattered on the road and he might not get that lead-lined coffin after all. He wiped the blood from his face and tried to think back- so long ago- to when he was just Art Baker, not number 3, walking himself to death on this long, scary road. Back to watching his uncle build coffins, fit perfectly and made of smooth wood. He would peer inside and imagine what it would be like to sleep centuries away inside. But now he couldn’t look in, not even in these half asleep dreams. Because when he did, it was the face of Olson, hair graying, as if he had been walking for years, of Abraham, his blind eyes turned up in the cold rain, of Collie Parker, obscenities dying on his cold lips. And then, it was Baker’s own face, sunken and bloody and tired. And he knew he wasn’t that different from them.
He tore away from the vision, scrambling for another loose thread in the jumbled fray of his mind.
He thought of his mother, sitting in a rocking chair, heavy with child. She had had that same peaceful smile until the baby came out dead and she had screamed and cried and everyone else had cried but Baker hadn’t cried. How could he cry when it was hard enough to get by already? When already he and his siblings fell asleep hungry? But his mother cried and his father yelled and called him heartless and his Aunt Hattie sat in an armchair, a small, sleepy smile on her face. Baker went to bed that night thinking that if anyone in their family deserved to die, it was him. And he hadn’t been afraid. He hadn’t, because for him death was ordinary, like taxes, and potato soup, and growling stomachs in the dark of night. But now he was here, and if he hadn’t been terrified when Curley bought it- vanishing in a hammer smash of blood- he sure as hell was now. Being carried off the road in a bag. Shipped back home and buried in the backyard like the dog they had when he was nine and still not afraid to die…
Baker was ripped from his thoughts as he plunged towards the pavement. He could feel fresh blood on his face, but ignored it, as he felt himself sinking into every crack in the surprisingly soft pavement. He could see a hand reach out to him, and for a moment he thought he was dead. But then the hand retracted and the soldiers kept giving warnings and he knew his time was not yet up.
And so Baker got to his feet. Because now he was afraid to die- afraid of the gunshots, the powerlessness, the darkness- and even though he still deserved to die, that didn’t mean he wanted to.
So he kept walking blindly on, knowing he wouldn’t last much longer. The inevitable was startlingly real now, unbelievably close. And now, more than ever, he was terrified.
Because he knew he couldn’t make it. Knew he would die on this road, and at home his siblings would be crowding around the television set watching, and they would see him die.
Knew he would buy a ticket, and no musketeer in the world could keep a bullet from crashing through his skull.
And again he wondered why he was there, wondered what he was thinking. But of course he knew. He had wanted to die. Wanted to ever since that night so long ago, with the screaming, the crying. Or maybe before?
Baker didn’t want to think about it. He just knew he wanted to die. He wanted to, but he was too scared. Too scared… he didn’t know how to die. But that was the type of fear that gnawed in his stomach in the middle of the night, not the type that shrouded around him, chilling him, ever present. Not like this.
He had wanted to die, but he didn’t know how. So he chose the Long Walk. At the time, he had had handy excuses for signing up. “We could really use the money. Anyways, if I die, one less mouth to feed.” But really, he just wanted to die, to come to an end.
Five days of torture, then a bullet through the head. So not only was he suicidal, but he was a fucking idiot.
The blood had dried on his face and neck, and now fresh blood was falling. Painting him. An angel painted in blood…
He heard a louder cheer go through the crowd and was convinced it was for him. Convinced that the carbines were zeroing in and that his time was done.
But no… the guns didn’t go off, and through his foggy, old man’s eyes, Baker could see a sign ahead. Boston.
Here he would die.
He would give up walking just outside the walking city.
Fitting.
So through the rain, he looked for Garraty, his eyes dragging up and down the empty road. Well, mostly empty. There were faint walking shapes, weaving deftly among the living. What was left of them anyways.
Garraty looked at him as he neared, seeming tired and thoroughly done in. But everyone did. He could win this thing yet.
Then Baker’s mouth was open, and he couldn’t stop the desperate tone in his voice. “Garraty? Are we in?”
No sign of understanding.
“In, are we in?” Baker himself barely knew what it meant, but somehow, he needed to know. “Garraty, please.”
An affirmative reply. Garraty still didn’t seem to know what he meant, but his face was softening, his eyes less foggy. He knew what was coming.
“I’m going to die now, Garraty.”
“All right.”
Now one of the ghosts looked at him, and he saw it was Abraham, smiling. Baker felt a chill. None of the others seemed to notice him, reminding him he wasn’t dead yet. But he was close.
“If you win, will you do something for me?” he asked, looking back to Garraty. “I’m scairt to ask anyone else.” He gestured to Abraham and who looked to be Olson, no longer scared, and Parker and Barkovitch and Harkness.
Garraty looked frightened, and Baker wondered how desperate he sounded and shame crawled up his back. What a funny thing to worry about when you’re dying…
“Anything,” came the other boy’s response.
Baker laid a hand on Garraty’s shoulder, and a shudder went though the other boy. Was he crying? For him?
It almost made Baker want to cry too. That’s probably what was happening at home. They were realizing he was done. They were watching him now and sobbing. Or maybe they were mad at him… Maybe he should smile, or wave. But no, that would just make it worse.
Leaning towards Garraty’s ear, Baker said, “Lead-lined.”
He could hear Ray let out a sob, then say, “Walk a little longer.” Another shaky intake of breathe. “Walk a little longer, Art.”
“No-” his voice was weak, defeated. “I can’t.”
“All right,” Garraty answered, trying to keep his voice level and failing. Baker had asked him about the blood and his voice had done that same thing. He had been disgusted, disgusted with Baker, and Baker had been scared and ashamed, the tears mixing with the slick blood.
Now it was pity.
Pity?
No, not pity. Maybe sadness.
Maybe he’ll really miss you…
“Maybe I’ll see you, man,” Baker voiced quietly. Too many maybes, he thought, wiping blood from his face.
He could see Garraty fold in on himself, sobbing. He could see his mother in the back of his mind, hands flying to her face. In that moment, he wanted to comfort them both, though his mother was thousands of miles away- and if he couldn’t make it to Boston, he sure as hell couldn’t get to Louisiana- and Garraty looked beyond help. Anyways, it wasn’t like a dead man could provide much comfort.
“Don’t watch ‘em do it,” Baker added. “Promise me that too.”
He wished he had something wise to say. Like Scramm. Scramm and wise were not often correlated, but in his last moments he was like an old, wise man, saying so long instead if goodbye and going with dignity.
Not like an old dog, ready to roll over dead, not like Baker.
He could see Garraty nod, struggle with words, then remain silent.
“Thanks. You’ve been my friend, Garraty,” he said. He tried to smile, but probably looked like a looming skull, teeth bared devilishly. Baker hoped not.
He felt compelled to add, “Say goodbye to the musketeers for me,” but really, the only one left besides Garraty was McVries. He wondered if McVries would care when he bought it or if to Pete he was already dead.
Instead he stuck his hand out and could feel Garraty taking it in both his hands, shaking it. “Another time, another place.” He could hear the sobs ripping from Garraty as he dropped back.
He was warned. It was his second warning.
Wiping his face one more time and looking out over the road- last look at the land of the living- he sat down cross legged on the pavement. He let his head hang back, the cold rain soaking his face. Third warning. It was almost over. Soon he could sleep. Rest his feet.
A soldier jumped over the side of the halftrack. Baker could hear the shoes against the wet pavement, but he didn’t look. He let out a sharp, surprised breath as the cold metal of the gun was pressed to his head.
He wondered what it would feel like, the bullet through his head- would it hurt? - and the dying, the coming to an end. No more Art Baker.
Then there was a tremendous blast of noise and all faded to dark.
And when he reached up to wipe his face again, he knew he was dead because there was no more blood and the ache in his feet had dulled. Actually it had disappeared altogether.
And when everything came back into focus, he was back at the starting post, and the sun felt warm against his cold skin. And he knew he was dead, but he had no time to dwell on it, because he no longer hurt, was no longer bleeding, and that fear was gone and so was the crawling sadness in his gut.
And up ahead he could see the other Walkers, just backs now, but easy to catch up to. Easy in his newfound strength. Baker felt like he could walk to Florida. Like the first day of the walk, but here there would be no warnings, no gunshots, and no death in store for them.
Ahead, he could see Abraham- easily recognizable from his height and red hair- turn and beckon for him to come and join them. He smiled, stepping over the starting line, hurrying to meet them.
Maybe Scramm was right. The real Walk had just begun.
Maybe he didn’t realize that he was killing the boy until he was drifting away in the ocean and had innocent blood on his hands. Because he knew that Simon wasn’t a beast. He was. Roger was.
And Simon was an angel… in both senses of the word now.
And now, Roger did know that it was wrong, but he was torn.
Torn between the gap that Simon’s death had left, and the pure ecstasy of killing him. He liked that feeling. It was the years of bullying others heightened and saturated into a single second when he knew Simon was dead.
When he knew it was because of him, and because of his hands, his power. It was beautiful, and wonderful, and terrifying. Later, he had felt horrible, because Simon was gone. He wanted him back.
Simon was his. How could anyone take him away from him?
No one else seemed to realize it was Simon who they had killed, and they didn’t feel bad about it at all. Roger did, but at the same time he loved it. No one told him he couldn’t do it, so why not do it?
He killed Piggy too, and ran the tribe as Jack’s right-hand man. Administering torture, scaring everyone into submission. That was what he was good at. And for a bit, he forgot about Simon.
Well, not completely.
Simon appeared to him in sunsets and moonflowers and gentle touches and a dark fringe of hair.
But that was all, because Simon was good and everything left on the island was dirty and evil. The sow’s head and the evil that accompanied it had pervaded through every part of the island and none of the savages had taken any notice.
Until the ship came.
Everyone seemed to notice then.
Ralph was crying; Jack was crying; the twins were crying; everyone was crying. But Roger wasn’t crying. Ralph explained how two were dead and the officer asked what happened to them.
Roger stepped forward, and with a little, proud smile, he said, “I killed them.”
It didn’t go over so well when they got home and they sent him away.
He hated it there, but he still had an escape in dreams. Dreams of running through the forest and hunting. Every night, Simon was there, waiting for him.
And Simon told him what he had done.
He had killed Simon.
And he remembered so vividly. Remembered the fire and the shadows and screams, begging them to stop, just stop.
Art Baker had never been very noticeable. He hadn’t particularly stood out in his horde of blond-haired, dirt-covered siblings, and he figured he liked the lack of attention. He had been able to slip away from family reunions and gatherings unnoticed, and sneak off to some low-hanging tree branch where he could read a book.
Now, he closed his eyes, remembering those days, lying back against the tree trunk, his arm dangling lazily by his side. It all seemed so distant, so faraway. The sounds of his little brothers and sisters calling for him that it was time for dinner were now a whisper, an echo.
And now, on the Walk, it was nothing but a distant memory, faraway, in the shadows of the Before. Everything since 9:00 on May 1st was the Now, everything else was the Before. And Baker very much doubted that there would be an After.
The Walk was the Now. Olson and Abraham and Collie Parker and Garraty and McVries and Barkovitch and the quiet, strange one in the purple pants were the Now.
Baker knew there had been others, but they were gone. There had been the boy with the notebook… what was his name again? Baker cursed himself for forgetting. Someone- a friend- was dead, and he could barely remember the boy’s name. Baker thought that was sick. He thought the whole thing was sick.
He realized he never wanted to come out of this thing. He didn’t want to come out of this and have everyone think of him as a hero, when really, he was just a robot that died slower than the rest.
From the moment people were born, they started dying. He guessed he was just a little bit more dead than the rest of his family. But not as dead as most of the people here. Not as dead as Barkovitch, with his whiney voice. Baker could tell he was hurting.
They all were, and it wasn’t just in their feet.
That was one of the worst parts of the Walk. You had so much time to think. Too much time. It just upset him… thinking. About everything he had done, everything that had gone wrong, and everything that he would never do.
It was torturous. Of course, there were other kids to talk to, but he felt isolated. Isolated with just him and his thoughts.
But it was the same for everyone. Walking to nowhere with just their thoughts. He figured that it didn’t matter how many friends you had or who you spent your time with, you always ended up alone.
Well, not completely alone. He still had his thoughts.
Roger was drawn to people who were just as fucked up as he was.
Jack seemed to fit the criteria. He liked hurting people, and he could do it and get away with it.
Maybe that was the most appealing part. Getting away with anything.
Anything and everything.
That’s what Roger could do when he was with Jack: anything and everything.
Yeah, he could steal Simon’s juice box and smash Robert’s sandcastle. And Jack would sweet talk the teacher out of giving him too much punishment. Well, at least his parents never got a call.
And Roger never felt bad for any of it. He didn’t care too much when he made littler kids cry, or bigger kids. He didn’t feel much remorse for anything.
Piggy stuck his tongue out at him and he made Piggy fall on his face. He was banned from snack and forced to sit in the corner, but Jack snuck him pieces of cookies so it was okay.
And somewhere, deep in his mind, Roger realized that he had met his match.
When they mere in fifth grade and Jack shot up to be nearly a foot taller than Roger- who hadn’t had a growth spurt yet- the shorter boy climbed on Jack’s shoulders and stole Piggy’s glasses while Roger laughed into Jack’s red hair and held the glasses just out of reach.
They spent those years carefree, picking on just about anyone, and laughing at just about everything.
And they didn’t know where they were heading. They didn’t know that in a few years Jack would cry every night and Roger would go to sleep in a bed that was not his own.
Because what kids ever think they’ll turn out as murderers?
He was a burden. And a bastard. A lonely little boy in his mother’s old jeans and sweatshirts. He didn’t know too many people, but it seemed they all knew about him. The kids in school picked on him: tripped him in the halls, stole his books, slammed his locker shut as he was getting his books for class.
He ate lunch in the library, his jelly sandwiches wrapped in napkins as he read through his lunch hour. He shoved the sandwiches in his pockets and ate between classes instead. He didn’t want to spill on the books.
And when he got home, the Major- his father- was there. And he asked how Stebbins’ walking was going, and then timed to see how fast he could get to the store and back. And then to the library. And then to the freeway. Each week the walks got longer.
Stebbins knew why.
He was no stranger to the Long Walk. He watched it every year, and once he saw the ending up close. And it didn’t really bother him. Neither did it excite him, as it seemed to do to the rest of the crowd.
Maybe because he knew that would be him.
He sent in his form when he was seventeen years old, and knew he was going to get in. After all, his father approved all walkers, and how could he resist including his little rabbit?
Unattainable, omg. Actually all of your new fics are just beautiful and just too much! I was wondering if you could do another Ralph/Simon, because I love Soft so so much. Sorry to be repetitive! Enjoy camp, btw :)
Here you go. I'm sorry it's so short, but I sort of like it. Here's the link: http://eric-writes-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/57245439745/boring
Really, once you got to know Ralph, he was boring. But Simon needed boring. He needed a constant.
A constant among the hectic choir practices and his parents at home and the lunch detentions and shoving in the hallways and the fainting spells.
He could sit with Ralph and try to forget about that. Just watch the words fall from the golden boy’s lips and try to be okay.
And under Ralph’s cerulean gaze, he believed it.
Peter McVries had taught him more about love than just about anyone he knew. More than his mother, with her stories of her and his father, before Ray was born of course. More than his eighth grade sex ed teacher, with his human body book dating from about thirty years previous.
McVries had taught him more about love than Jan had, with her pretty face and bright eyes. Love was more than just gentle hands and soft lips and smooth blond hair through his fingertips. Not just sweaters and knitting needles and mistletoe and crunchy snow beneath boots. Not just tears and begging him to stay, please stay.
Ray was occasionally almost glad he hadn’t listened to her.
Because then he met Peter McVries, and he learned that love could stretch beyond Jan, beyond his small town and his cookie cutter life.
Because love was slashing rain and white, jutting scars and sitting down and unshaven faces and bleary eyes and we live to fight another day. It was anger and mood swings and raw hamburger and strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back, keeping him from doing something stupid. It was slanting smiles- seeming much less infuriating now- and dark hair and moons and stars and a piercing, empty, aching sadness and walking, walking, walking.
And it was blood-encrusted paper numbers clenched between white fists and a slanted, mocking 61.
Hi I love your writing!! Okay so this is gonna be a weird request, but could you do something where roger and simon are forced to share a bed/sleep in the same tent? Please and thank you!
Definitely! Here's the link: http://eric-writes-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/57089618754/nightmares
theartofmadeline
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art