77 HER LAST RIDE/ 78 THE BONE GARDEN  

jasonabadboy4u 29M
48 posts
6/17/2006 1:29 am

Last Read:
8/25/2006 1:34 am

77 HER LAST RIDE/ 78 THE BONE GARDEN

77 HER LAST RIDE
There was a young girl who got drunk and high at a party, who went home and all the partying made her really horny, So she used a broom stick to pleasure herself. She danced around the broom stick much like a stripper would dance around a pole. In mystic rhythm to the RATT SONG BODY TALK. She was standing on a table doing it, When her Mother walked in on her. The girl fell off the table and the stick went up her and it killed her, because the stick was too long and thick for her to handle.

78 THE BONE GARDEN
The bones began growing as Trevor traceries around his house. They grew on the sides of the house as white ivy that didn't even look like bones until you got very close and saw that the bone-colored ivy was without leaf. Sometimes very thin, translucent bones grew over his windows like the patterns of frost that he remembered from his childhood. Nothing did particularly well in his garden except bones. Bones grew up between his corn in rows, long bones--leg bones, he reckoned--he never took an interest in them for a biological viewpoint. Short bones grew up under his tomato plants, uprooting them. He would find teeth on his driveway. Seeds, he reckoned they were, but he never saw the bony flower or fruit that dropped them. After a while he gave up and parked his vehicle in the street. The teeth were too rough on his tires. The house had been very cheap, of course. When the phenomena had started, it was in all the papers and the half-hour news every half hour. But interest had waned. Sometimes a car full of foreigners would go down the back alley and check out the bone garden. Maybe it would get a write-up in some paper for Halloween. It had been a good place for him to retire. He had worked long and hard in the construction business. It's one thing for a twenty-year-old to be up roofing at the crack of dawn, he can take it. But a man in his fifties, his old bones crack and creak too much. Perhaps it was his bones that told him, through some turn or twist, that he should buy the little cottage in the bone garden. He never was much for company. He'd retired too early to go to the places that senior citizens haunt. He didn't care for church, never rightly believed in the afterlife. So he was happy in the bone garden. Loving its white forest of silence that calmed his mind as he puttered slowly about. He ate everything he wanted to eat. He had been hungry as a child, His parents were poor. But now he would never be hungry again. He was happy. But then the beetles came. Small bone-white beetles, that bored into the bones that grew like trees around his house. They chewed little holes into them, and soon the bones became a forest of flutes, violins, and organ pipes, and each wandering breeze played haunting melodies--enchanting, strange, thin and high. He tried tapping his ears shut. He tried covering the bone's holes. He tried singing the once peaceful and soothing songs from his childhood to drown out the haunting chorus melody that the bones sang. They sang of freedom, freedom from the slave-like job of holding up the body. His bones had suffered his hard work of making a living in life, and now even worse suffered his great weight. Although they were loyal bones, they heard the song. They now cried for belonging. One day they left him and walked out into the white garden to be with their kind.


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