THE ROT BOG was overflowing with a stench fairly usual to it’s everyday foulness. Hershall D. Skeletoni, despite standing about ten feet from it in the stupefyingly moist heat of an Illinois summer, didn’t notice this, nor did anyone else in the world, because they were all skeletons now. Hershall sometimes wondered how long everyone had been a skeleton. But, he figured that at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter all that much as long as everyone could tell each other apart. Hershall separated himself from the other bone folks by scribbling his name across his skull in Sharpie every morning when he was done screaming into the sleepless void of night. This was how most skeletons distinguished themselves. Hershall however, like some, didn’t feel like this was enough. He didn’t have a dick anymore, so he didn’t wear pants, but he did like to feel cool, so he wore a leather biker jacket complete with a big scary back patch and some shoulder spikes. He also liked to carry an orange, scuffed, and dirty traffic cone under his arm. Hershall thought other skeletons might say things like “wow, look at that skeleton. What a badpelvis.” or “man, that cone goes really well with his patella.” However, most skeletons just said things like “what the fuck are you thinking, stupid ass? Skeletons can’t ride motorcycles. Take that fucking jacket off, poser-bitch.” or “Osteoporosis havin’ cone head. Look at this guy’s bone spurs. Have some self respect and sand those off already.” These things didn’t make Hershall happy, but in the end, he still thought they looked cool. He was intent on meeting someone else who did, too.
Hershall wasn’t all that happy about being alive again. He was born, like most skeletons, when his bone parents dug him out of a grave they thought looked nice, and put his bones all back together. After they chanted the magic birthing words, unholy light filled his eye sockets and he shuddered and rattled with new life. His new parents beamed at him like all skeletons had to because they didn’t have lips. “Welcome back, son! I’m your bone dad, Carlton, and this is your bone mom, Molina!” Hershall looked down at himself and the black soil that still clung to his ribs. “What the fuck? Why am I skeleton?” Horrible laughter clacked and rattled out of his bone parents’ skulls while their bony bodies jiggled and shimmied in a way that would have made anyone with a stomach puke. “We’re all skeletons now, son!” Hershall hated them.
Hershall had tried to kill himself a few times. Every attempt convinced him more and more how invincible he was. He had thrown himself into the bog just last summer. At the bottom he met a pretty nice skeleton who had tried to do the same thing years ago. They hit it off and talked about books they’d read. But, before he knew it, someone caught Hershall’s bike jacket with their fishing line and reeled him up onto their dinghy. Everyone on the boat started clubbing him.
He wasn’t sure why he came back to the bog this summer. He wasn’t trying to die anymore. Not only was it useless, it just made him sad afterward. He was trying to be more positive. He started thinking about his friend down there at the bottom of the bog. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brick with “u r cool. Love, Hershall” chiseled into it’s surface. He drew his arm bones back, and hurled it into lake right where he remembered jumping in. He really hoped his friend would read it, but he was sure he’d never get a reply.
