Skullingtons

With the passing of August the 1st, we are now officially in the Halloween season! Hurrah! The stores are stuffed with poor quality plastic spiders and bats, Bogleech is posting regularly, and the lymph harvesters have begun spewing their toxic ichor all across the land! Honestly, three months is barely enough for this most magical time of year, but somehow we all manage to survive. The coming of the season this year in particular has led me to an interesting thought though, an interest I've always had but never really acknowledged. I really like skeletons. Like, a lot. If I could walk around with my skeleton showing and not die of blood loss and/or stonings, I would do it all the time. Every time, in fact. I would never not be a skeleton, strutting about town to show off my cool skull, awesome impacted ribcage off the hook mandible!

But skeletons are not just aesthetically pleasing to me, OH NO, this is deeper than that. I love skeletons as a concept. The idea of a hardened, semi-organic, calcified framework existing inside of every single person just fascinates me. Not just that, but the fact that its likely that this hardy little frame is going to be the only solid evidence that any particular human existed at all! BUT WAIT THAT'S NOT ALL, they can tell you more about people you already thought you knew about, like our good friend Richard here!

Source

People used to think he was a hunchbacked, crippled, creepy little jerk! How silly is that??? Just look at those bones, so STRONG and CHARISMATIC and NORMALLY PROPORTIONED. Clearly nothing but slander hurled by some nerd jealous of those sweet ulnas.

Doot doot

Yet even more fascinating are the varying portrayals of skeletons in art and culture. Being so closely tied with death and the dead, skeletons often serve as reminders of the impermanence of life and the inevitability of death. The medieval allegory Danse Macabre, for instance, uses a skeleton to represent Death itself. Death leads both the rich and the poor off to join his morbid dance, and cuts quite a strapping figure as he does so!

Wheeeee! Allegories are fun!

The portrayal of skeletons in the context of Halloween is especially interesting, as in recent times the skeleton has become somewhat of a goofy figure rather than something to be feared like barn owls. Despite the fact that a 'living' skeleton is literally the only remaining pieces of a long dead human walking around of its own volition, no one seems to be able to take them seriously anymore. But I'm certainly not complaining, its this particular portrayal I appreciate the most, the spooky skeleton clattering around a graveyard at night, playing the xylophone with his friend's ribcage and clacking his pearly teeth. At best, this skeleton can hope to scare some amorous teens with strange ideas about date destinations, or perhaps harass some low-level adventurers. But that's just what makes it so lovable, it's goofy and silly and yet still wonderfully macabre.
Oh, and they're also excellent dancers.

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            The beast's skin was horridly pale, stretched so tightly over its emaciated frame that it cracked at its swollen joints, oozing thick red blood. Its gaping maw, dripping gore from a recent meal, sports crooked teeth that jut from every angle within. With the fluid motions that come from years of practise, the final touch is added - eyes like tar pits staring out from its tumorous head, their empty stare mindless and yet full of unfathomable malice. You chuckle to yourself at the finished work. Another wonderfully morbid creature design, which the people upstairs will no doubt neuter into another bland, tasteless, money making zombie. Despite this near certainty, you take great pride in your work, and gleefully show off your portfolio of designs to anyone you think can stomach it.

            As you organise your desk and prepare to go for lunch, one of your coworkers walks by and you engage in the necessary curt-yet-friendly small talk. Your peers at the firm seem to like you well enough. They laugh at most of your corny jokes, invite you to parties, and today, like most days, you are about to go out for lunch with a small group of them. However even as your co-worker politely wishes you well and walks off, those dreaded feelings creep back to the front of your mind - emptiness, blackness, and a feeling of total disconnection from your peers. Although they appear to think of you as a rather social person, regularly engaging most of them in friendly conversation, in your mind it is a completely different story. Every conversation is a battle, firing off canned responses and joking remarks in a desperate attempt to appear to be someone worth associating with, someone who 'fits in'.

            In your mind, it is as though you have a book of the premade phrases, and every conversation involves hurling them at an uncaring, oblivious wall. You are terrified of the possibility that the book will come up empty, and you will be left silent and helpless as the judgement of your peers descends upon you. They have grown used to seeing you as a decently chipper person who always seems to know what to say, and the idea that they could discover the pathetic person behind your more pleasant persona terrifies you. Needless to say, this gives you no small amount of stress. You have your solutions though, methods of relieving the anxiety caused by such a large disconnect between who you think you are and what others may expect.

            Although you would be embarrassed to admit it, one of the most effective ways you've found of calming these emotions is a sort of group therapy session. It functions more like a prayer circle however - you and a group of likely equally troubled individuals gather weekly in the basement of a local community centre and engage in various 'rituals'. These range from simple meditation to incense baths and using crystals to "cleanse your chakras." Personally, you think the whole concept of spiritual energy and chakras is utter nonsense, but you can't question the results. After a session you are always noticeably relaxed and much more friendly, genuinely so. Daunting social interactions even seem to take less out of you, which you consider the largest benefit.

            It's been nearly a week since the last session, and you have been feeling progressively more uncomfortable at work over the past few days. Luckily, the next meeting is scheduled for the coming evening. With that happy thought in mind you trudge through the rest of your day, sketching peeling skin, forcing out pleasant conversation, and trying to avoid being invited to any social outings after work. Finally, after what seems like an eternity people begin to pack their bags and leave for the day. You slowly put together your things, feeling completely spent, and somewhat depressed. You manage to squeeze out a last few terse - and hopefully still friendly enough - goodbyes, and quickly head home.

            When you arrive home you waste no time preparing for the evening ahead. You fish your aromatherapy candles and incense out from behind your dresser, tuck your kunzite necklace into your jacket, and head out the door. The walk to the community centre is blissfully uneventful, the headphones lodged in your ears making sure to discourage any potential conversationalists. The weather seems to match your mood: grey, overcast and lifeless.

            Finally you turn a corner and enter the squat red brick community centre, and hurry down the stairs into the basement. The lights are dimmed as usual to facilitate energy transfer and meditation, and in the middle of the otherwise featureless room is a large wooden table. Tastefully arranged on top are various pastel coloured candles  and bundles of incense sticks. Some of the members of your group have already arrived, and you take a seat as far from them as possible, avoiding eye contact. The majority of them do the same, save the occasional quick glance to see if anyone is looking at them. You pull out your candles and arrange them on the table, completing the complex pattern formed by the others. Slowly the rest of your group drifts down into the basement, save your leader. She is more a leader in a spiritual sense, serving as a mentor and guide, speaking rarely and always willing to listen. Simply being around her makes you more relaxed, and you view her almost as a saviour of sorts, rescuing you from the myriad stressors of everyday life.

            Eventually you hear her descending the stairs, slowly and methodically. Her cane's plastic tip taps on the linoleum floor with each step. She slowly works her way around the table, passing by everyone seated. As she passes you catch a whiff of patchouli, and the stress of the day already begins to fade. She rests her cane against the table and hauls her hunched, shrunken old body up onto it.

            Her voice is dry, quiet and rasps just slightly, reminding you of autumn leaves skittering across a sidewalk. "Everyone appears to be present... let us begin. James, if you would please." In response, the man to your left pulls out a small book of matches and begins to light the candles. You let your eyes unfocus, aimlessly gazing through the dancing flames. Behind them the old woman, your spiritual saviour, softly places her hands on the table.

            "I believe that we are ready to try something new. You've all been prepared for a while, and I think it's time for the next step." She coughs weakly, and links hands with the people beside her. Silently, everyone at the table does the same, forming a circle. You barely notice as James' hand gently slips into yours, and the heavy-set woman to your right does the same. You are already fully absorbed by the atmosphere of the ritual, focusing only on your leader and the flickering lights. The heady scent of the candles fills the room, and your mind begins to feel hazy. You don't particularly mind, and treat it as welcome relief from your typically overactive brain.

            "The time has come. Yes. We will begin." Between each short phrase the woman coughs, louder each time. If your mind had not been dulled by the candles, you may have noticed a thin rivulet of blood emerge from the corner of her mouth. She begins to emit a low hum, and you recess further into your mind, calm sensations washing over your body in waves.

            "Together, fear disappears. Combined, stress is non-existent. Anxiety is but an inconsequential twitching of the isolated consciousness." Your saviour coughs again. It sounds wet and painful. Despite this your eyelids sag, and you lose yet more awareness of what is occurring around you. Slowly, wrinkles turn to seams on her sagging skin and it begins to curl back, sloughing off like a rotting fruit. Foul vapours emerge from within, yet only the pleasant scent of the candles reaches your nose. Dozens of tiny marbled red tendrils peek their way out from under her skin, and begin to work their way out and around the circle. One makes its way from James' arm to yours. As the sinuous feeler brushes your skin you shiver with excitement and chuckle softly. Whether you actually made any sound or not, you can't be sure. You certainly didn't know your mentor could do this.

            More tentacles begin to probe your flesh, and ever so slowly begin to worm their way under your skin. You do not mind, in fact you barely notice. Under your flesh they knit together, anchoring themselves to muscle and bone. You've never felt this relaxed in your life. The tentacles swell and twist, and your body begins to move on its own. It reminds you of being carried by your parents as a small child. With a muffled crunch, one of the tentacles snaps both bones in your forearm. Your head is twisted to the side, and for a moment you catch a glimpse of James. Bulbous tentacles writhe within his mouth and eye sockets, all slick with blood. You feel so happy for him. He was one of the more troubled members of your group. The view doesn't last long, as you feel a pressure begin to build from behind your eyes. There is a feeling of release as a pair of gentle pops leaves you in the dark. Your body continues to contort, and you feel yourself twisting towards the floor. Your mind clouds over, and with your final independent thought you thank your mother for this gift. This gift of belonging.

            Days later the police find you. The scent of ripening blood had finally overcame the scent of lavender and made its way up into the yoga studio on the main floor. The officers who were sent to investigate, despite years of experience with violent crimes, wretched at the sight. A great wreath of flesh. Nine bodies, barely recognizable as individuals, wrapped together by mangled flesh and broken bones into a ring. At its apex, still perched on its chair, a mound of sagging, wrinkled flesh. And on the table, written in molten wax and blood, an inscription.

            "Everything I did, I did for them. They deserved better, because I love them. Because I love you all." The mass of flesh heaved, and emitted one last gurgling cough.