If one seeks a story, they must look for the bones. If you find bones in the forest, stay for awhile and listen. The ones in the forest are especially skilled in the art of spinning tales. They tell stories of long ago, before the trees stretched tall enough to brush the sky with brittle fingers. If you listen long enough, they may whisper accounts of how the streams wound their way through the forest, carving out canals and shaping the land around them in ways that only the water can. On rare occasions, when the stars align between dew-drenched leaves, the bones in the forest might tell you a spell or two.
They aren’t the type of spell that so many are used to. These spells are not the gibberish fabricated by people who cannot stand the world they live in, and in turn, they create others. No, these spells are too simple, yet too complex, to be caged by a few letters. They are spells woven into stories and uttered between the crude syllables of human tongues. They ensnare the mind and twist the threads of reality into living things that tread the faded border between two worlds. Some have attempted to assign them a name. Some call them “fate”. Others refuse to hear or accept it, pushing the idea away and insisting they are in control. However, that is beside the point; there are some questions we were never meant to answer. Only the bones in the forest know the spells and tell such stories. So, my friend, if you seek a story, seek the forest’s bones.
“The bones by the sea, ” you ask? I happen to be an expert on those bones. It’s such a tragedy that so many of us are experts in harmful things. If you see bones by the sea, run back the way you came. The bones by the sea carry a warning. If you’re foolish enough to stay and listen, you’ll catch the faint echoes of splintering boards, drunken hymns, and siren songs drifting between the rasp of waves scraping across the smooth planes of sand. They pull you in, warping the senses until all you can see, smell, hear, taste, and touch is the sea and her bones. A wise man will tell you, “stick to the forest paths and the kinder bones.” The path where grass and dirt meets sand and sharp protrusions of rock can only lead to us. And we can only whisper warnings of our master which fall upon deaf ears until the last thing you hear is the faint lilt of the siren songs drifting through the fog.