"Two skeletons in a graveyard, they aren't just perfect though, but their bond is real, and it gets even better from there because this Skeleton One refuses to go anywhere without his five-foot-tall Skeleton Two.
Among all the ghosts in rags and ha...
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A cold wind blew bitterly, chilling the Cemetery as well as the already dead ice-cold Skeletons to their bones. Overhead, dark clouds blotted out the moon from time to time, casting the centuries-old cemetery into inky blackness, yet further, his hollow eyes could see a storm gathering.
Lightning flashed in the distance and the Skeleton who lived in the cemetery hurried with the chore that brought him out in the middle of the night while his only Skeleton pal who is currently in a centuries-old bungalow, behind the gravestones, snoozed his nights off.
The descending night casts faint shadows of dancing ghouls, spirits, and phantoms onto the estate of the graves. Aggressive gusts of wind rip through the air, as the storm neared their arena, crying in grief, causing the leaves to flap furiously as if they were bat wings.
A hoarse raven, perched atop the low stone wall in the distance, croaks fatally, announcing the arrival of darkness before being devoured by the night.
Silence engulfs the cemetery, coating the frigid air. A dense fog makes its way through the cracks in the gravel path, stubbornly settling onto the contours of the graves.
Past the gates, a blanket of marble tombstones stands erect, lined up perfectly like a sea of dead. Worshiping them at their feet is a jungle of creepers, climbers, and fallen twigs.
In time, overgrown and unkempt ivy has caged these headstones in a wreath of glory, as it grows wild, as it has with the others.
This obsolete ramshackle of somber, dull gray gravestones, so surreal in artwork, looks grim to many eyes except The Two Skeletons who cherish the remaining presence of their spooky mates. Statues of stone angels lay draped on a few graves. Carved to perfection, they are wrapped in clothing with defined wings protruding from their back, the gentle protectors of those asleep forever, seem to come alive as the sky darkens.
At the far end of the cemetery, the Skeleton with its hands crossed flutter-walks around the wintry darkness of the cemetery as he hurriedly did the dusting off many headstones of their dear friends and beloved family members.
The immense silence prevailing in the arena made the Skeleton silently stare at the valuable inscriptions, with its hollow eyes crinkling at its edges, slightly glazed over.
Salty, dusty tears brim over his eyes and spill down the defined ridges of his face, outlining the slightly upturned nose bones, past the mountains above his cupid's bow, disappearing between his lipless mouth.
Suddenly, the crying Skeleton jerks up from his previously crouched position and hurries off into the night to his friend who is napping in his wooden box. As the fog becomes stagnant, the cemetery is asleep.
