I was out for a spin, thinking about where I was going and
where I had crossposted where I had been, when from behind there came a rattle, the sound of bones upon a saddle; a skeleton was following me, no flesh as far as I could see.
This was more than a little alarming, his extra toothy grin not my idea of charming. Despite the lack of muscle tone, he met my pace, let out a moan.
"Hold up," he said, "I haven't lungs, or for that matter throat or tongue. Suspend, dear chap, your disbelief, or we shall crash and come to grief."
I try to heed good advice, even when the source ain't nice. No coward did my mother raise – I shook myself out of my daze. We braked down to conversational pace. After all, it wasn't a race. For if it were, he'd beaten me to where I sooner or later will be.
He claimed to be the ghost of forum past: "Yes,
the one that didn't last." Talk about your forumite spotting. Normally they're fresh; he hadn't ceased rotting. "Why did the skeleton cross the road?" He riddled me as if I didn't already know.
We chatted about people now forever an arm's length away. And that's where we left it, so that's where it lay.
