We Are the Sand

We Are the Sand Chapter 2

Chapter the Second: The Weak Willed

Doesn't matter when we get back to doing what we do. 'Cause right now could last forever just as long as I'm with you.

"Tell me again what we're doing here," Olette whispered angrily from behind a tall obelisk-shaped tombstone of an indeterminate shade of grey, carved from an equally unknown stone. Most likely marble or granite, as befitting an antiquated Vermont cemetery.

The day was still clear, still crisp, as fitting a New England autumn, and a stiff breeze rustled the whip-thin branches of a nearby hemlock, (or spruce, fir even; Olette really had little knowledge about such things.) causing her to jump. She laughed a little at herself for her silliness, the sound hollow even to her untrained ears. Really, there was nothing to fear here, she told herself. No malevolent shades of ages past to bother or haunt their minds. And even if there were, they certainly would not attack them in broad daylight. Really.

And if I tell myself that enough times, I might come to believe that.

The attractive, crisp, bright-white paint on the picket fence (yes, really, a white picket fence for a graveyard; Hayner had snickered at that.) did little to make the environment feel homey, considering the circumstances. An incongruously cheery white picket fence around a necropolis did not make it a fenced-in yard. Nor did calling it a memorial park make it an actual park; Hayner had found that out the hard way when he tried playing flag football in such a place. "Well, if they didn't want it used as a park, they shouldn't've called it that!" he had exclaimed, indignantly.

Hayner grinned. "Officially, we're doing research on various town legends, and historical figures. But really, we're looking for ghosts."

Pence groaned. Whatever happened to the zombies? Apparently, they were "so five minutes ago," as Hayner would've told him dismissively. Accordingly, so was internal consistency. Besides, ghosts were not exactly the most interesting things in the world.

Roxas gave a headstone with a deeply scalloped top a wide berth, staring at it warily, hoping nothing reached up and grabbed him. It occurred to him that many of the markers looked similar, and would not do for landmarks, should they get separated one from another. He said so.

Hayner laughed. "Oh, Roxas. Don't worry. They're not gonna eat you! The zombies'll get you first!"

"If it makes you feel any better, you'll probably give 'em diabetes or something," Pence added.

"Right, thanks. I feel sooo much better," Roxas said, drily. He glanced wistfully at the quaint white church next door, the subject of many a "picturesque" tourist photo. He wondered whether he would be quick enough to make it inside, should a zombie, ghost, or vampire (the latter too "cliché" for Hayner to consider a viable threat) decide to make an appearance. Of course, with his luck, it would be an unnameable abomination from beyond the universe itself that would attack him and his friends. Somehow, he doubted quaint and picturesque would be able to save him from that. Ah, well. At least Hayner would not be able to complain about being killed by something that was hopelessly mainstream. So that was something, he supposed. He himself would much rather not be destroyed at all, whether by a cliché or a novel evil that had not been hitherto considered. Dead was dead, after all.

"They write romance novels about vampires, for Pete's sake!" Hayner had whined. Which Namine devoured like fine chocolate. Somehow, Roxas doubted one could say the same thing about Yog-Sothoth. Then again...

Roxas fancied himself able to hear his heartbeat. "Welp, we've found nothing," he said loudly, hoping to frighten whatever was there either away or into the open (though the latter probably was not as good an idea as the former.) "Perhaps we should go elsewhere?" Like home? Please?