He died. 'Withered' is a better way of putting it, I suppose. Natural causes, as natural as forming a habit. Thinned out 'til the skin hung from his bones and each blue vein showed right through the pale, wrinkled flesh. Blood creeping through the veins like a rabbit makes its way through a snake. Hand might fall off if he had a loose bracelet choking his wrist. Then all his connective tissue went away and the bones started running right into each other. He found himself a corner in the room and just slumped over. No one moved him.
His friends couldn't do anything, they were too old and too dead. Sometimes the sons and daughters of his friends visited the room, remembering the stories about how special and enchanting he was. Gathered around his bones, they'd put golden stones in the sockets where his eyes used to glow. They slid around his leg bones on the floor til they looked like a leg, arm bones til they looked like an arm. And when all the bones seemed right and the golden eyes stared at the ceiling, they draped fine silk over the bones and there he was, vaguely as he used to be.
"There he is, and how great he was" they all said.
And they left him there, dusty on the cold concrete.
There it is. My first attempt at fiction, and probably my first attempt at creative writing other than the private writings of an angsty teenager from years ago. Some sentences I am thrilled with and others maybe not so much. Let me know what you think.
