❝ From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity. ❞
Edvard Munch

𓃥 𓃠

"Being young is shit, no matter what they say. And this town, this town, it eats you. Gnaws at your bones till you're string thin. And just like the rest of them you wash up dead. Or dead inside at least. Slowly you ignite the world around you till there's nothing left but ash."

"Welcome to Bonetree."

The slide flickers, you blink awake at the bright white glow that cuts the room. You realise that's not what the girl was saying at all. But the look behind her eyes, like a demon dancing in soft green flames, speaks those words round the back of your ears. You glance at your notebook. "Bonetree coz there's some grove or some cut old wood in the forest. The opening of the mouth of the world." Something like that. It's not like that shit matters anyhow. This is supposed to be a better place full of better people. You glance around. These kids look just as brain dead as they did where you used to live, you think.

At least there's a projector that works here. At least you have a warm place to stay this winter. It can't be that bad, can it?

𓃹

Beneath the boy, the forest stirs. Each root, each rhizome connects the lifeblood of the whole forest. And through each leaf, the forest breathes. The forest has eyes too. It sees the beating hearts of the children of Bonetree, yearning to clutch them. It's tendrils call through the vibrations of the trees, into their world of sand and husks. From atop the hill you can see the town. The trees that mark the edge of the forest are almost fully red and yellow, as if some vast hand had set the earth on fire. Quietly, it would burn. The light is golden, honeyed, that douses the plains beyond in a heavy gilded glow. It flows in slow waves from top to bottom covering the rooftops with its cool flame. And yet the town itself, as seen from above, looks like a scab, a person's itchy scar. From this distance you can't hear all the commotion and the town seems peacefully innocent. Yet that is precisely where they're burying the dead right now. The boy, the dead's twin and his lifeblood hangs his head, clutching the service sheet closely, gripping it tight and focusing on the next breath. Somewhere indoors they are washing the steel table upon which the body lay before the burial, ready for the next corpse to warm its cold hands.

But you know, from your swallow's gaze, circling the town, here among the sweetgrass is the living, there it is gone.

You don't know how you know this, or why you see with such clarity som things which others see with blurry eyes, when you weren't ever there. The forest speaks secrets to you sometimes, and you see with your blind eyes wide awake. Mama says it's dreams that keep us going as she ruffles your hair. But she doesn't explain why your dreams speak in another language, and tempt the fate of others through a fork in the road like a snake's tongue. Or why you see with your swallow's eye as they lower the child-sized coffin into the earth. She doesn't know these things. Somehow, in your little glass cage, your heart pulses with light.

𓃓

You are in detention again for setting Cameron Parkerson's locker on fire. It's not your fault he's a spoilt bratshithead and also the Principal's son. Everyone gets punished and so he should too. You found his basketball shoes in the locker room and put them in for good measure too, just in case. It's a pity you didn't grab Starboy's too. Shit, if you knew how, you'd even cast a curse. Set his little white ass running.

You carve your initials into the desk to pass the time, and make sure to spit in the teacher's name when he's out of earshot. You would kick his head in if you had the chance, but you don't. You probably wouldn't really. It's just when people get on your nerves things happen so fast. It always ends the same. A bust lip and detention. One more achievement to put on your college application. As if that's ever happening.

That's the problem with this town. Nothing ever happens. You just have to sit back and watch rich bitches like Cameron Parkerson get their trophies while the mould grows in the roof of your mouth till it gets bitter and goes rotten. And slowly, we all rot black blood. The apocalypse in Bonetree was a long time ago. Everyone thinks they're so fucking perfect but they're just rotten inside. Like the fucking tree in the town square, forever immortalised for its perfect fucking failure at life. You just wanna run until you can't smell it's putrid fumes no more.

You check your watch. You're late for dinner. You decide to make yourself later by taking a detour through the woods.

𓆈

The forest hunts too. They know this but they don't speak of it because 'trees don't have claws and don't have teeth to tear you up'. But this one does. You have been watching, taking note quietly. In fact, you have a theory that all forests do, it's just that no one notices. You have to give or it's starts to take. You are piecing together things, bit by bit. Newspaper cuttings and faded printouts strung together by your dad's garden string. If he knew you were doing this he would never speak to you again. After his brother's disappearance into the woods he faded to hard stone, like Medusa had crawled from the inside and opened her frightful gaze.

But if your dad just knew how far you'd got, then maybe he'd wait. You felt close, or closer than you'd ever felt before in knowing this town's secrets. If you found him then you'd be the hero of this stinking town.

It begins with a question. At the edge of the forest, you draw the symbols in the sand and light the candles. You close your eyes and whisper into the rustling of the trees:

"What do you want?"

𓃥

LaDainian Crazy Thunder

as

Luko Cloud Wolf

the stray dog,
or
he who has roamed some way beyond his father's grave.

𓅪

Aubrey O'Mahoney

as

Callan O'Donaghue

the sparrow,
or
the boy with the fear of what love lies inside him.

❝ If I had a heart, I'd know where to start. ❞

Dickhead Blues ♱ Kara Jackson

inspiration:
I. The Third Day (HBO). II. War Pony. III. Reservation Dogs IV. The Apostle V. Sex Education VI. Yellowjackets VII. Stranger Things VIII. Drive your Plough over the Bones of the Dead, Olga Tokarczuk

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BONEMARROW, CHILD
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