Wsssh, wsssh the trees whispered to each other over the forest path. Their branches brushed against each other with a dry creaking as leaves fluttered between them to the ground. The crescent moon shone brightly in the midnight sky and John the Skeleton could hear squirrels rustling over the dry leaves that littered the ground. He strode along the curving path, wrapping his trench coat tightly around his bones. He peered through his dark eye sockets at the trunks rising on either side of him, scouring the bark for–there. On the side of a lonely sycamore, there hung the tiniest scrap of navy scarf, nearly identical to the cerulean one he had clutched in his bony hand. He reached up, slowly, softly, and tied his scrap beside the other. Then he took a sharp right and strolled past the sycamore towards a maple towering above a clearing in the distance. When he reached the open space, he was greeted by a solitary figure with a fedora perched on his skull. Fred the Skeleton waved and beckoned him over to a tree stump.
“We’re just waiting on Joe, now,” he hissed to John.
“Joe is always late. We should kick him out.”
“Yeah, and then we wouldn’t be the Trio of Trouble.”
“Well, I always said I liked the Duo of Doom better.”
“Hey! Sorry I’m late, I have terrible eyesight.” Joe announced as he walked toward them.
Fred gave him a look, “You don’t have eyes. Stop making excuses.”
“Well neither do you,” Joe blustered as he sat.
Fred turned to John and muttered, “He probably just got the color wrong again.”
“All I’m saying,” Joe returned defensively, “is that I thought we all agreed yellow was a better color.”
“We did,” John put in before Fred could, “but we also realized none of us own anything yellow.”
“Speak for yourself,” Joe grumbled.
By Isabela Pap ‘24, Creative Writing Editor
