The Many Lives of Devon Reeves

By Wyatt Eller de Miranda, Trevor White, Christine Hansen and Ike Riva

For its second anthology, TerraGenesis Collective members were challenged to each write a story with a single constraint: the story had to feature a character named "Devon Reeves." We hope you will enjoy reading about the eponymous character, spanning genres and genders, as they play the part of protagonist, antagonist, and those roles lying in-between.
Who is Devon Reeves? A hero? A villain? A genius? A fool?
Four different stories are contained within, unified principally in the name of one character. Some of these stories defy easy classification, but painting in broad strokes, inside this anthology you can expect to find horror, tragedy, and a healthy dose of weird.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terragenesis Collective
• Release date: Sep 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005364274

Book preview

The Many Lives of Devon Reeves

Published by the Terragenesis Collective as organized through the TGC Anthology Club Distributed by Smashwords

The Call to Adventure Copyright 2022 Wyatt de Miranda

A Thing Forgotten Copyright 2022 Trevor White

Conscience Copyright 2022 Christine M. E. Hansen

Author’s Note Copyright 2022 Ike Riva

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

The Call to Adventure

A Thing Forgotten

CONSCIENCE

Author’s Note

About the Authors

Art Credits

The Call to Adventure

By Wyatt de Miranda

Once upon a time would be once too many for Devon Reeves. That is the first thing you must understand about them. While they enjoyed a good book, narrative distance was key to that enjoyment. To be the protagonist of their own tale, therefore, was more than they could bear.

That’s why they came to me, knocking desperately on my door in the middle of the night. I’d barely opened the door when they thrust their hand inside, grasping the chain lock. Mr. Narrator, they said, just a pair of lips and a single wide eye, you must help me stop this thing before it begins.

I fear it may be too late for that, said I, with a performative yawn. Yes, late indeed. What time is it?

Some ungodly hour or another, they said. I couldn’t sleep; so many of the stories I’ve read begin with the hero waking up that I dread each morning. Through their arm’s narrow egress, they traced the short chain to its end and slowly threaded the bead through its track. May I come in? They asked this, stopping just short of releasing the lock.

It was against my better judgment, but who was I to stand in the way of this story’s momentum? Pacing is a delicate thing. Thus, I moved aside so that they might enter, simultaneously gesturing my assent to their entry and, I suppose, ultimately inviting them in. The lock came undone; the chain slumped uselessly; the door opened wide.

They walked in a little ways and then stood, less than a meter from the entryway, staring at me and wringing their hands. I closed the door to the evening air as, behind me, they began to pace.

Mr. Narrator, I am in a bad way, you see.

I do see. And why is that?

This dreadful story business, it’s just, I can’t bear it. I think you’re right to say it’s too late. I’ve been unable to shake for some time this vague sense of unease and, as soon as I got here, it began to occur to me what it was: the feeling of being watched. Yes, I’m certain now that the story has begun, but there must still be something I can do to hasten it to some anticlimactic end?

How would you propose to do that?

They stopped in their tracks, their fist smacking into the bowl of the opposite palm. Why, I could thwart the author. Every time he tries to make something happen in a storied fashion, I will counterbalance it by behaving in a most unliterary way.

Fool that I am, I was amused by Devon’s ideas. I’d told many a story in my day and never met a protagonist with such resolve to be otherwise. There was the archetype of the reluctant hero, and then there was Devon: something far beyond that.

I began stoking the fire in the fireplace, and replied with feigned aloofness: If I begin offering ideas, I think I shall start becoming something of a ‘mentor’ figure to you. Not only would this play into narrative tropes, thus not serving your purpose at all, it would likely mark me for death ere the end of the first act.

But, you’re the narrator!

Narrators turn out to be ghosts sometimes, telling the tale from beyond the grave, I pointed out, rolling over one of the logs and getting a mote of flame to rise upwards out of it. It’s not particularly clever, but still not unheard of. I think it best if I merely spectate and nod while you list off your own ideas.

Right, they said, hesitation still showing in their voice. I suppose that is for the best.

I plopped down into my armchair and lit up my trusty pipe.

Someone pointed out to me once that I have a habit of playing with fire when idle. I suppose this is true, but there seemed to me nothing particularly dangerous about the flame when caged in the hearth or in the bowl of a smoking pipe. And a match was no match for me; so long as I paid it due attention, I was its master. I felt rather safe with it, like a sultan in the presence of his pet tiger, magnificent yet tamed and seemingly docile.

But enough of that intimate aside.