Bones, Bones, Lovely Bones

I'm not a celebrator of Halloween, but have been known to read the odd dark fantasy, watch the occasional horror flick, and write a weird tale or two.

This being October, I thought I'd root around in the dank cellars of past writing and short pieces for the reading pleasure of those for whom All Hallow's Eve is a source of creativity.

my attempt at drawing bones

First is this quirky little poem composed on the fly in 2009 as the response to an editor's new system for judging stories in our slush pile: award them bones.

Bones, bones, tasty bones
Fresh bones, blood-sticky, flesh-spongy bones
Arm bones and thigh bones and tiny, skinny finger bones
Puzzle-cut spine bones and knobby-ended wrist bones
Not-so-round skull bones
Shovel-scooped collar bones, wing-like shoulder bones
Bones, bones, lovely bones
White-boiled angels floating in my stew

In keeping with the previous image, here's another sideways bit, this time a piece of flash fiction I composed for a contest Adam Callaway hosted over on his blog, also in 2009:

Dinner drips from my fingers, grease mingling with the blood on my boots, and I am weary from the hunt, but the cook has ruined his last meal; despite his weeping protestations, despite my wife's admonition not to bite the hands that feed us, I will have new meat for roasting.

Resigned, she sends one of the servants with a cauldron to capture the fat for rendering, and wonders aloud if the skewer will bend to breaking with such a load as it now bears.

"It's his own fault"—I kick aside his apron and bloody clothes—"for letting that annoying miniature Englishman up the beanstalk."

Y'know, I've always wondered about Jack. He invades someone's home, steals his stuff, and chops down the beanstalk, committing murder. Makes me think the giant was justified: "Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread."

Yum!