7/14/25, 9:13 AM Sack of Bones – A Drama Short Story by Rose Brown – Reedsy Prompts

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Submitted to: Contest #308

Sack of Bones
Written in response to: "Write a story in which the
natural and the mystical intertwine."

🏆 Contest #308 Winner!

Rose Brown Follow 86 likes 94 comments

Drama

This story contains sensitive content

Content warning: brief mentions of child abuse and

domestic violence.

I can’t tell if the yowling’s for the dead or the heat. It’s
cicada hiss and lawn mower growl hot—so hot, it’s
disrespectful. But as Dad shovels dirt over Papa, I’m
cold. I can't cry, and it feels like sin.
“It's alright to grieve,” Aunt June whispers. “Ain't no
shame in it.”
She fans herself with a program as tears drip below
her sunglasses. She means it's shameful not to cry,
especially for your own. But I can't put on grief like
wide-brimmed hats and pearls and black dresses. Can't
wear it if I don't mean it.
“Who’s catering?” I say. “I'm starved.”
“Lawd!” June scowls and whacks my shoulder with
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Bone-white laurels punch through the dirt like

defiant little fists. My uncle stomps over their petals, a
banjolele slung over his shoulder. A stringed thing torn
between a banjo and ukulele, mourning and joy. He
stops beside the gravediggers and smiles.
“For Papa,” he says, and strums. The bluegrass starts
low but swings lighter, too cheery. Feet thump against
dirt. A few hips sway. The song almost turns Papa’s
funeral into a shindig, like we can't decide whether to
celebrate or sob. At least, I can't.
I don’t hate Papa. Just never knew how to like him.
War, whiskey, and whatever else made him mean. A
monster most days. But human, somehow, when he told
stories.
The man could lie like a Craigslist landlord. But a few
of his tales were true, like how his Pops made him wait
outside town shops, too ashamed of the darkness of his
own son's skin. He also told war stories. Well, started
them. They ended like his altar boy stories, in a grunt,
silence, and another bottle.
Last time I saw Papa, a few months before he died, he
slumped in that ugly olive recliner, its guts spilling out
the side. Cancer made him thinner, weaker, but no less
angry.
“He still flies off the handle over nothin’,” June
muttered. She told me Papa had been phoning friends
and bragging to the neighbors about how his grandkid
got into college—akin to an Olympic gold medal in our
small Appalachian town. So he hugged me when he saw
me and stuck a cigar in my palm, even though he
always said smokes weren't for girls.
We rocked on the porch and talked, smoking as the
sky turned from gold to dusky purple. Fireflies sparked
in the weeds. Papa slapped his knee when I told him
how I aced my first exam, and asked all about school
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Dad and his siblings didn't make it through high

school, and my cousins spent more time behind bars
than out 'cause they couldn't keep away from dope.
Papa didn't get boys to brag on. He got me.
“There's a spirit in these woods,” Papa said. He told
me the legend of a lost soul who whistles past the
willows, only in summer, near graves. He carries the
bones of his father in a sack over his shoulder.
“He just keeps walkin’, bones clackin’ like ice in a cup,
lookin’ for a place to lay it down. But never does.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Papa scratched his beard. “Some things can’t be put
away, no matter how hard ya try.” He went quiet for a
moment, then shouted at June to bring him a beer. She
took too long. When she finally handed it over, he
tossed it at her and shattered it against the brick, just
shy of her head.
June still kept his meds organized, drove him to
appointments, even helped bathe him when his legs
started to give. She looked after him, and that's how he
thanked her.
Papa asked if I’d come back soon. I said maybe, but
lied. To him, women were maids and half-brains. But
even my half a brain knew to get out before he made
me into June.
Now, past the freshly buried casket and teary crowd,
willow trees line the graveyard. They're bent and
mournful. A brief gust makes the boughs drift slow and
ghost-like as Papa’s voice echoes in my head:
“Only in summer, by the graves. He carries a sack of
his father’s bones. Looks for a spot to bury ‘em. Never
finds one. Can’t let go.”
But I don't see a spirit by the willows. Just Dad
standing stiff, shoulders tight. No ghostly whistle, only
sniffles and wailing from the people Papa hurt most. As
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if he didn't flick his family away like a cigarette out of a

car window.
Dad stares at me and marches over. I see that tiny
patch of dark skin on his left arm, still there from when
Papa stuck a lighter to him after he “stole” a pack of
gum as a toddler.
Dad waves a hand in front of my face. “It's hotter
than the hinges of hell out here. Y’alright?”
I nod.
It's not a lie. Papa’s gone, and I'm fine. Cold. And that
feels worse than being sad. Makes me feel like a beast,
like I belong out in the woods on all fours more than in
a dress and heels.
Finally, everyone shuffles back through the grass, to
a narrow path leading to the church. It's a white stoned
building, sticking out of our godforsaken town like a
diamond in dirt. I’m glad it’s almost done—the wails, the
fake condolences, the platitudes.
They say Papa lit up every room, but don't say how.
They don't admit he doused it in gasoline and struck a
match—just say he had a nice smile. Like most of his
stories, his eulogy’s a tall tale. One I'm tired of hearing.
We step past a wrought-iron gate screaming at the
joints. A heavy silence makes my body tense. Even the
birds hush. I walk beside Dad, no noise except the
crunch of gravel beneath our feet.
June stops at the open church doors, dabbing her
eyes, and waves us over. But Dad doesn't follow the
crowd inside. He nods to the parking lot and I follow,
until we plop onto his truck bed. The metal sears
through cotton into my thighs. I don't move.
Dad doesn’t say anything as he passes me a steaming
water bottle buried under a towel, hands shaking a
little. Mine shake too. I want to ask if he’s glad Papa’s
gone, but the question feels wicked.
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Does Dad feel the same? Is he…relieved? Ashamed?

Done with this funeral, too?
“Think you'll miss him?”
Dad doesn't answer right away. Doesn't look at me
when he does.
“I’ll miss who he coulda been.”
I nod and squeeze my hands together tight.
“I'm proud of you, you know that?” Dad says. “Hell,
you’re the only good thing about me.”
I force a smile. Dad’s never been good with feelings.
Neither have I. But if I’d been raised by Papa—never told
I was loved, hit instead of held—I’d be worse. At least I
got more than he did. I got scraps, but Dad got starved.
And I know Dad cares. I see it in his eyes, and in the
way he calls on my breaks to ask if I’ll come visit.
He looks like he wants to say more, but sighs and
picks at a hangnail. I want to ask if Papa ever told Dad
he was proud, but I already know.
Dad yanks out a cigarette and marches toward the
tree line. He leans against a trunk, folds his arms, and
whistles.
A tear burns down my cheek, and I'm relieved. Maybe
flesh beats behind my chest instead of granite after all.
But I don’t cry for Papa. I cry for Dad.
Just ‘cause you bury a man doesn’t mean the hurt
goes down with him. Maybe Papa learned that from his
Pops, Dad learned it from Papa, and I learned it from
Dad. I pray mine won't learn it from me.
If Papa were here, what story would he tell? I’ll never
know—and maybe that’s best. As Dad finishes his
smoke, I head for the church. Sun whips my skin. My
tears are already dry as I walk on, quietly carrying his
bones.

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86 likes 94 comments

5 points Mary Bendickson 14:11 Jul 04, 2025

Congrats on your win!🥳 Lots of lines that tell a
picture.Well done.
Reply

2 points Rose Brown 20:34 Jul 04, 2025

Thank you Mary!
Reply

4 points Jack Kimball 17:12 Jun 28, 2025

My personal story is close to this so it rings true. I suppose
there are exceptions, but in spite of all the pain, a kid
always loves their father and grandfather, I guess for what
they "couda been."
Some great nuggets:
"But I can't put on grief like wide-brimmed hats and pearls
and black dresses."
“He just keeps walkin’, bones clackin’ like ice in a cup,
lookin’ for a place to lay it down. But never does.”
"But even my half a brain knew to get out before he made
me into June."
“Hell, you’re the only good thing about me.”
Reply

4 points Rose Brown 20:35 Jun 28, 2025

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Thank you, Jack. I’m really touched that the story

resonated with you (I’ve found that, too). I really
appreciate your feedback and you taking the time to
highlight those lines. It means a lot.
Reply

3 points Rohit Pruthi 14:12 Jul 06, 2025

Sometimes, the reader cannot see the setting, not the
words only the tale. The narrator fades away, the stage
melts and the characters come alive - it becomes magic.
This for me is magic.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 17:13 Jul 06, 2025

Wow! Thank you, Rohit. What a compliment. I'm so
honored the story resonated with you that way
Reply

3 points Derek Roberts 12:55 Jul 05, 2025

You can't see the writing. All we can see is the funeral and
the bones in the invisible sack she caries. Remarkable
story. I learned a few new similes and metaphors. Just a
natural voice telling a story that is made most important by
the universal complexity of cruelty and love.
Well done.
Reply

3 points Rose Brown 15:20 Jul 05, 2025

Thank you so much, Derek. That’s such a kind
compliment. I really appreciate it!
Reply

2 points Derek Roberts 16:27 Jul 05, 2025

It's a great story. I should thank you.
Reply

3 points Nicole Moir 12:00 Jul 04, 2025

Congrats on your WIN!
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4 points Rose Brown 12:36 Jul 04, 2025

Thanks Nicole! I'm shocked!
Reply

3 points Wilbur Whateley 22:19 Jun 28, 2025

Loved this story, Rose.
My favorite part: But even my half a brain knew to get out
before he made me into June.
Reply

2 points Rose Brown 23:12 Jun 28, 2025

Thanks Wilbur! I really appreciate it
Reply

2 points Sean Price 19:12 Jun 28, 2025

Earthy and poignant. Very well done.
Reply

3 points Rose Brown 20:36 Jun 28, 2025

Thank you Sean! That means a lot
Reply

1 points Chuck Thompson 00:02 Jul 12, 2025

My favorite line: Fireflies sparked in the weeds. That was a
wonderful image. Many of us carry too many bones; your
imagery hit the nail on the head for me.
Thanks and congratulations!!
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 17:56 Jul 12, 2025

Thank you so much, Chuck. I really appreciate it! So glad
you liked it.
Reply

1 points Maxwell Pacilio 12:00 JulStories

10, 2025
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A very serene and beautiful story about death and our

complex relationships with parental figures that wronged
us. Well written and congrats on the win
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 14:16 Jul 10, 2025

Thank you, Maxwell! I really appreciate it
Reply

1 points Chloe Nkwanzi 10:58 Jul 10, 2025

I need you to publish a novel or a collection of short stories
:) Everything about this piece is impeccable!
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 14:09 Jul 10, 2025

Thank you, Chloe! That’s so kind and encouraging. I
actually just finished my first novel, so your words mean
the world!
Reply

1 points Chloe Nkwanzi 05:19 Jul 12, 2025

Congrats, Rose! I'm pleased to learn of your
accomplishment! You should be super proud :)
Also, I'd love to read a novel by you some day!
Reply

1 points Akos Brenya 02:35 Jul 10, 2025

I love your writing style. It's a bit more unique to me than
others I've read and just feels absolutely perfect for the
story. The only problem I had with the story was the fact
that it took me till half way through the story to realize that
"Papa" was referring to grandpa.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 14:13 Jul 10, 2025

Thank you so much, Akos! I’m glad the voice resonated
with you. That means a lot. And I hear you on “Papa”! It
can definitely mean different things depending on where
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1 points John Diedrich 02:03 Jul 10, 2025

I am blown away. The imagery is incredible. The way the
characters have ticks. The way the bones are given a strict
symbolic meaning, and the living are burdened with the
bags. truly incredible writing.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 14:15 Jul 10, 2025

Wow! Thank you so much, John. I’m so glad the imagery
and symbolism landed. Your comment honestly means a
lot
Reply

1 points Charlotte Waldo 18:44 Jul 09, 2025

WOW! This is so beautifully written in so few words. I love
how seamlessly you incorporated the setting through
descriptions--before you even mentioned the small
Appalachian town I knew where this was set based on the
accents, descriptions of weather, and imagery like wide-
brimmed hats and dusky purple skies. Please keep writing!
I could reads books and books of this writing style.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 20:03 Jul 09, 2025

Wow, thank you Charlotte! What a compliment. I really
appreciate it 🙂
Reply

1 points Silent Zinnia 18:18 Jul 09, 2025

congrats on the win rose brown🥳
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 20:04 Jul 09, 2025

Thank you so much!
Reply

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anytime💖
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1 points Story Time 16:32 Jul 09, 2025

"But I can't put on grief like wide-brimmed hats and pearls
and black dresses."
So many gorgeous lines, but that one really stuck out to
me. Wonderful job.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 17:50 Jul 09, 2025

Thank you so much!
Reply

1 points Michael Alonso 02:59 Jul 09, 2025

Beautiful. Emotionally touching. The characters so vivid
and the story told so well. Congrats on winning the
contest. Well deserved.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 17:50 Jul 09, 2025

Thank you so much, Michael!
Reply

1 points Tim Allister 01:49 Jul 09, 2025

Rose - this was excellent. Effortless, natural prose that felt
so authentic. Really can’t wait to read more of your work.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 17:50 Jul 09, 2025

Thanks, Tim! That really means a lot
Reply

1 points Mary Dietz 22:02 Jul 07, 2025

abuse of any kind remains in the family some way,
sometimes cycle is broken if addressed. Not fully
understanding abuse can lead to further damage.
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1 points Rose Brown 22:44 Jul 07, 2025

Thanks for reading. The generational weight and the way
abuse lingers (especially when not named) was definitely
at the heart of what I wanted to explore.
Reply

1 points Ilma A 19:45 Jul 07, 2025

Poignant little story. Congratulations on the win!
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 21:32 Jul 07, 2025

Thank you, Ilma!
Reply

1 points Aliciel Alone 19:35 Jul 07, 2025

A well earned win. God what wonderful analogies with a
southern core. My favorite lines: “ But if I’d been raised by
Papa—never told I was loved, hit instead of held—I’d be
worse. At least I got more than he did. I got scraps, but Dad
got starved.” That hits hard.
Reply

1 points Rose Brown 21:34 Jul 07, 2025

Thank you, Aliciel! I’m so glad the analogies landed.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell if they’re actually working
while writing them haha
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