NEXT TO EACH STORY IS A SONG THAT GOES WITH IT, OR THAT I WAS LISTENING TO WHILE WRITING THAT MATCHES THE VIBE. I RECOMMEND LISTENING TO EACH STORY WITH THE SONG BUT NO PRESSURE ITS JUST FOR THE VIBE
he waited to hear the click of the door two floors below before he clambered out of his bedroom window out onto the back roof of the house. The tiles he sat on were cold and a slight bit damp but the evening sun was warm. A light breeze passed through him, slithering through his hair. He felt it slightly rustle the fabric of his clothes, and wash over the back of his neck, pricking his hairs just a little. His shirt was baggy, so it lightly flapped against his torso. He wore a nice, baggy wool jumper and loose fitting jeans. He stared out at the sunset, far off into the distance with striking sweeps of oranges and reds and very distant purples and blues. Closer to him in this view was his small town, filling his ears with a faraway hum of chatter and laughter and glasses clinking. One by one, as the time passed by, more and more lights went out in the houses as families went to sleep, and the chatter faded, leaving his ears only to hear the music in his old headphones. Guitar strums and easy going basslines ruminated at a low volume around him, leaving a slight melancholia to the atmosphere, but one where he could live in the atmosphere for forever, he could stay there on that roof listening to music and watching the world go by. In some ways he would stay there forever, as little did he know, seconds later a flying shark would hover behind him, and rip off his head in one enormous bite, sending bones flying. He would not have a chance to scream and in a minute, he would be reduced to a gory mess, forever staining those roof tiles, torn limb from limb into oblivion But for the minute before the shark came, he could stay there forever.
I met the skeleton man at about five pm on a Thursday in my late teens, by the side of the road. I was walking along aimlessly, humming some old tune to myself. The side of the road was of patchy gravel, but quickly became fields that stretched out for miles, no sign of a city or town. Next to no cars came by, the few that did going past quickly, missing the skeleton man, whose bone thumb was outstretched to the road. He wore a dark purple hooded cloak, and over the top a dirty silver necklace. I came to where he stood, and he turned to me, with the sound of his bones creaking at the moment. He asked me how I was, and I said well. We paused a moment as he eyed me, and I tried to avoid the gaze of his cold, wide, empty sockets. I asked how he was, and he returned me a striking cackle, ending with a chuckling i’m fine thanks. He offered me a sandwich, apparently given to him by some driver he’d been riding with and hadn’t had the heart to tell the driver that it was a bit useless to him. I took it gladly, having not eaten in a few hours. It wasn’t pleasant by any means, it’s taste being most closely associated to ham mixed with the cold pocket of a skeleton man’s cloak, which checked out. I asked him where he had come from, and again he cackled shortly. He seemed to find me very funny, but I suppose he found most people funny as a skeleton. He told me he didn’t bother reading signs anymore. He was forgetting how to read these days. But, he said, he came from very far away, that he knew. I asked if he had a destination for all the hitchhiking and he responded by asking me if I had a destination. I said, what do you mean, and he gave a hearty skeletal chuckle. We paused as I finished the sandwich, and he peered down the road to see any more cars. There were none. He told me that he once had flesh and all too, but that was almost as long ago as far he had come. I didn’t understand what he meant but I nodded anyway. He cackled and nodded back at me and told me not to worry about it. We stood again for a while, before a car came to slow by us. He grinned his skeletal grin at me and stepped into the car, waving away his skeletal hand.