sgt cal davidson. (resourcefully) wrote in remains_rpg, |
He might have overlooked it, if not for the glow. The SUV is rolling down the street and about to pass the dried-out remains of Littlefield Fountain when Cal’s wary eye catches sight of something propped up on the monument, balanced against a horse’s rearing foreleg. “Hang on—park for a moment, will you?” He’s practically pressing his face against the window, squinting at the light. Apart from the three shelters, Austin’s streets haven’t been lit. Not in a long time. Sanada sighs, hands on the steering wheel, but he does let up on the gas. “Got another personal errand to run? You itching to get chomped again?” “Nah, I’m…” But Cal is distracted, near-hypnotised by the ocean blue. It’s small, but bright. When the car rolls to a stop, he’s grabbing his gun, popping the lock, and striding out to take a look (while keeping a careful eye on the surroundings, because Austin has been rocked by too much turmoil lately, and god knows but maybe it’s a trap). He steps over the ledge and into the dry bed of the fountain, which is filled with fallen leaves. When he reaches the bronze horse and its little decoration, Cal thinks of all the women back in Harlan and their homemade jars of canned jams and preserves. Or the mason jars he’d drunk out of, back when things were less complicated and there was sweet tea to enjoy. There’s a trailing piece of paper attached to the jar. “Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.” It gives him pause, staring at the careful scrawl, lit up by the strange phosphorescent glow of the jar itself. And seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear: he knows it’s poetry, but from a certain angle, it sounds like a wisp of the old Calvin sending him a reminder. The earth is only a little dust under our feet. The man stares at the dry, crumbling leaves beneath his boots, then his gaze drifts to look up at the too-bright night sky. He remembers coming across something like this in a newspaper dispenser once: a jar filled with scraps of paper, doodles and messages and brightly-coloured paper, a message entreating the finder to add their own contribution and then deliver it back out to the wild. He’d taken it home then bellyached over it for weeks, before simply replacing it in the dispenser, untouched. But he tucks this one into his palm, cradling it close to his chest, and walks quickly back towards the idling car where his colleague awaits. Cal wonders. Maybe it’s grasping at goddamn straws, but it does seem like the sort of thing she’d do. It does sound like her. There’s a small flutter of hope in his chest, even as he climbs in and closes the door, face lit up by this careful blue glow, folded protectively between his hands. |