Photo by 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič – @specialdaddy on Unsplash

The black iron caldron exploded when Jared tossed saltpeter onto the roiling ingredients. The piercing light gouged my eye sockets, the concussion split my eardrums, and my heart stopped beating. I felt myself falling.

I don’t know if I lost consciousness, but when I opened my eyes everything was dark. Every bone in my body ached, and they creaked and clattered as I struggled to sit. My head spun, thoughts swirled, the wind whistled in my ears, evoking the weird sensation of being in a deep murky carven. It overwhelmed me.

“Jared?” My voice croaked. It barely sounded like me.

“Dude.” Jared sang the word, which calmed me, and creeped me out at the same time.

“What was that?”

“I didn’t think it would work,” his laughter teetered on the verge of hysteria, and I began to tremble.

“I’m just happy we’re still alive.”

“Technically, I am not sure we are. We are skeletons, man.”

I turned my hands in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. The disembodied bones waved at me.

“Jared, what the hell did you do to us?”

“We need to do something about this.”

“We Kemosabe? What’s this ‘we’ shit? You’re the one who created this insane mess, and you’ve got to fix it. Now. I have no intention of spending the rest of my life as a skeleton.”

“Aw, come on. These are killer costumes. I bet we get tons of candy.”

“If we don’t scare everyone.”

“It’s Halloween. Isn’t that the point?”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Photo by Jeremy Renke on Unsplash

Jake and I had a standing appointment. It was a college ritual, established to catch up and brag about our weekend escapades. Fate had a way of pulling us apart as we explored parties, women, and adventure. On Monday, we always met at our favorite coffee shop.

I was excited this morning. My latest exploit marked a huge event, one we had discussed at length. While I planned, Jake told me every reason he thought I was crazy. I wouldn’t listen. Sophie, the love of my life, and I were going to Lion’s Bay for a once in a lifetime trip. I prepared a romantic picnic, a proposal, and a celebratory cliff jump when she agreed.  I left nothing to chance.

Jake looked like he arrived hours ago. Sitting in his usual spot, he seemed tired and somehow older than I had ever seen him before.

He glanced up at me and turned deathly pale.

“Jake don’t look so worried. It was fabulous. She said ‘yes.’ We’re getting married.”

His eyes widened, and he rubbed his hand across his face before he stared at me again.

“I see she didn’t overstate the issue,” he muttered then took a big swig from his cup.

“What issue? Didn’t you hear me? I’m the happiest man on the planet. It was the greatest day of my life.”

“It was the last too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Will you listen to me? We were best friends.”

“Were?”

“Buddy, we buried you years ago.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash

It was midnight. He had left me here, in the basement, with instructions to finish the display before tomorrow’s opening. At The Mütter, my tasks were never-ending. Each piece required painstaking placement and anchoring invisible to the naked eye. I pushed my fists into my low back. Creaking and popping, I stretched, seeking to ease muscles stiffened by too many hours spent hunched at my table.

On the stairs leading to freedom, a familiar inky mist gathered and swirled. He always appeared during full moon nights, when the lunar glow highlighted his smoky silhouette.

“Good to see you, my friend. I have missed you,” I smiled as his shape shimmered and solidified.

“Yes, Emmet has me working late, again. The man is cruel beyond imagining.”

Admiring my progress, I listened as the bones created their own story. A cold wind whispered, and his voice crackled with the smell of autumn leaves. I toyed with the germ he planted. His plan to relieve the thousand tortures Emmet heaped upon me.

“You are right, I could work on him. Make him understand.”

My companion patted my shoulder, and his courage flowed through me.

“The opening gala is tomorrow night.”

He leaned toward me, and the seedling grew, producing a perfectly formed, black rose.

“I could lure him with a cask of Amontillado. We have a wall of bones, and as part of the permanent installation, they would lie undisturbed for years.”

A faint jingling of bells kissed my ears.

“In pace requiescat.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer