Alright- I've never done anything for Eerie, Indiana before but it was one of my favorite shows growing up and I only recently rediscovered it and decided to try my hand at writing something for it. So let me know if anything seems OOC or anything I can do to improve at all!
Also, this is for a Halloween themes challenge that my friend and I do, if you want to do the challenge too send me a PM and I'll give you the themes. There should be 31 of these up before Halloween, even if I am about 5 days behind, so we'll see how it goes.
I don't own anything here, just the thoughts in my head.
For the theme of Tombstones
What's in a Name?
There had to be one here somewhere; one that would be fitting, one that didn't seem to be of use to anyone anymore. He knew what it was like to be abandoned, forgotten, with nothing to give you an identity.
He was just a boy looking for a name; and this had to be the place for it.
This place was full of names that no one wanted anymore. Whole lives left to be picked up by anyone looking for a past. It wasn't like these people needed their pasts, they weren't going to be using them anytime soon.
He had passed into the area of the graveyard where the names were nearly washed away from age and the tombstones jutted up from the ground like broken teeth. This was where he would find his name, the one that he could take. These were the forgotten ones; these were the ones who had been gone so long that they would need help in having their stories remembered. He could help them tell their story, their story would become his.
He studied the names on weathered, stone markers but none of them seemed to fit.
With a dejected groan the grey-haired boy sat back on his haunches. It was no use; they were meaningless. He didn't know the stories behind the names. There was nothing there for him to take.
He had thought it would be easy, just like going to the World-o-Stuff, so easy he didn't know why he hadn't already done this. But he was wrong, like everything else he seemed to try. There were no stories here for him to continue. No past that he could use for his own.
Sighing, he placed his hands on either side of the aged name before him, willing it to give him its story; to tell him the secret of having a past. If only the marks on his hands could give him a story, but they were as silent as the names inscribed upon the stones.
He sat in silence a moment, mulling thoughts of names and markings and pasts over in his mind.
The marks on his hands weren't a traditional name of sorts, but they were a mark. More importantly, they were his mark and led to a past that was wholly his; not borrowed. Why shouldn't he use these enigmatic marks to find his own past? If not, then he could at least make a new one with them.