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Truth-telling at it's finest sprinkled with the necessary gut checks.
Snatch the bag, spilling out the devil's bones. Tinkling across the floor, skittering away for what began as the last story I would tell my twenty year old son. Red raw, jumping and juking, I trip over the years. Only when the bones land upon the wicked truths am I paused. Truths told only between mother and son as the minute molecules of woebegone burst with the telling whiskey in the river.