Bonedog Poem Novels & Stories

I cried out. (Translation: "God, please save me this time, next time I will handle it myself. Please save me considering it to be the result of my mother's worship.") Suddenly someone tapped my shoulder. Is the dog nudging my shoulder with his nose or something? Noooooo!!!!! "I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry please leave me. I'm not your bone and you can't have my bone. I want to live a long life." I apologized to the dog with my eyes closed.

Ever since I was young, I knew that my parents' work was unique. My father was a detective who had solved many major cases, while my mother was a forensic artist who was capable of finding clues from the victim's bones. Together, they solved numerous cases. Their most famous one was the White Bone Case five years ago. It was a case about a criminal gang who abducted and killed homeless people before using their bones to smuggle drugs. Since these were real human bones, they could easily avoid being caught by claiming these bones as medical materials.

"How long you live to regret it depends on what you do after taking that step." Brendan was about to call my bluff when a sinister growl emerged from the same alley they'd just exited. All of us froze as the shadows seemed to slide away to reveal a huge dog; wider than a wolf, larger than a lion, perhaps proportionate to a small bear. Canine eyes burned in the darkness like the vengeful fires of Hell and when the streetlamps hit the beast, it glinted off fangs sharp enough to slice through bone like butter. He moved forward on massive paws—claws clicking on the cement—and it was as if the dark came with him. Then I saw that it was merely his midnight fur playing tricks on my eyes; his long,

“And you’d finally understand what it means when a wolf claims you.” The air between them thickened, full of unspoken things she didn’t dare touch. She focused on keeping him steady, on the rhythmic crunch of gravel under their boots. Finally, the tunnel widened again, and she saw it—a pale arch of bone and stone, curved like the ribs of some long-dead beast. The Bone Gate. It wasn’t a literal gate. It was an opening into the outside world, framed by massive fossilized remains. Beyond it, she could see pale daylight and the movement of trees.

"I... I have them. If you don't believe her, I can—" "No!" Tracey screamed, lunging to stop him, but it was too late. The sharp click of the car unlocking sealed her fate. I threw open the trunk. The stench hit me first. Then I saw it—a small, lifeless dog, its body limp and decaying. Puffy. Peter stumbled back, his face white as a sheet. "Tracey... Puffy... why is... why is Puffy here?" The live stream exploded. Comments poured in, furious and relentless:

Waiting. Above the broken tree line, the moon had risen. Bone-white and too full, hanging low and wide in the ash-colored sky. The Bone Moon. It glared through twisted branches like an eye that had seen too much, then stopped judging. Cold. Eternal. Familiar. Its light caught the ragged edges of the ridge and silvered them. The stones around us cast no shadows, like even they were afraid to interrupt the stillness. Smoke curled from the remains of the fire, thin and pale as old ghosts.

The candles flickered, casting shadows that reached like arms. Outside, the fog had returned. It crept under the cracks in the Bone House walls, quiet and slow. Underneath their boots, the floorboards trembled. Just once. A heartbeat in the bones. And they all knew: the dreams were only the beginning. Something old had noticed them. And it had started to listen.

I try to breathe slow, because slow sometimes fools the pain into blinking. It doesn’t blink. Bone peels. The best I can do to describe it is this: imagine your skeleton is a shirt you’ve been wearing your whole life and somebody tells it to turn inside out while you’re still in it. There’s a ripping sound you can’t hear and a lot of little snaps you can. The Wolf loves this part. He pants happily under my ribs, tail beating at the notion of afterward. He does not acknowledge that during has teeth too.

I rake my hands through my hair then take a sip of my black coffee, extra strong this morning since Madi and I were up all-night fucking, making love and enjoying the last pleasures until we can see each other again. She arrests my heart; she owns the damn thing. I couldn’t wish for a better person to claim it, damn this sucks. I’m standing in my grey joggers, my chest is bare, and Honey-Belle sits at my feet, “hey, Girl you want some treats?” I reach for the bag Madi keeps on the countertop and retrieve some mini bone things and place them down in front of her, she wags her cute ass tail and eats away crunching and making adorable sounds. Shit, this place is going to feel so damn empty when

At about ten in the morning, before lunch is served, short of parenthetical immensities about the recent case of a dog, the doomed offering beneath the orange sun, the children surround the area where there is a smell drawing a familiar incident. It’s a funny fruit torn from the sight’s memorial Eden recalling a life in the hay, once mistakenly begging for bones, sometimes barking at the neighbour’s election campaign ads-plastered tree, shaking out what’s coming in less, drily unnameable.