Truth-telling at it's finest sprinkled with the necessary gut checks.
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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.