So Jim Sterling posted this status: “Imagine if our skeletons were alive inside us and kept talking to us all of the time” and it inspired me to write a short little thing cause the idea of our skeletons speaking and us not hearing would not leave me alone.
The Bones Sing:
The voice was wrong, it sounded off kilter, dry and rattling. Not what they expected their voice to sound like when they let thoughts run wild in the night. This was different, it was underneath, a rasp that threw things off.
The voice also spoke of dark things, of fears, the ways in which the human should not know or understand. It was an old tongue, strange to mortal ears, rather humans. It was forgotten in waking times, an unpleasant echo to those who could hear it.
That old tongue is brushed off as a figment, something imagined in the void between waking and rest; though that would be cold comfort for anyone who realized just what they were hearing. It was the bones, their voice and their song that was unheard by most; still sung though it went unnoticed.
There was a cadence, the words simple as they floated through muscle and sinew to the unsuspecting human that kept those words to themselves; hoarding a treasure unaware. The bones sung, they spoke to their host all the time, but humans turned those whispers into complaints of aging, or aches and chills never understanding the serenade of the bones.
More often than not, the song fades when it remains unheard, unknown. But many skeletons are persistent and wish to know their tunes are heard by their host. They sign louder, yell inside to be heard, but only make their host sure they are hurt, dying in some cases. Instead of discovery, those few humans who are blessed by their song eschew their gift, and soon only know suffering from denying the melody of the bones.
Age does not matter, but the whispers are discounted as a matter of gaining years, never wisdom in these matters. Instead it becomes a litany of complaints of pain or simply dismissed as getting older. The words get louder, but are ignored as shrieks of a knee joint on a cold morning; or a shoulder that twinges after sleeping oddly.
Never do we consider that our bones speak from birth to death, and we are simply too pre-occupied with life to hear them until it’s too late