I always thought it was a strange place for a children’s playground, the cemetery. But there it was. It makes me think of horror films of the 80s and how the watching of these should be a mandatory part of a council planner’s induction, in the ‘why not to build things on top of tombs, especially where those dead are potentially undead and particularly cranky’ training. But there it was. This is a Turtle Sandpit Story, because that’s where I found it. I always thought the turtle sandpit was a strange place for a human little finger bone. But there it was.
It should have been on the my hand with the other larger human finger bones, but there it was, in the turtle sandpit, here, in the Turtle Sandpit Story. As I dug through the coarse moist sand making mini mountain ranges it lay there, with the rest of my bones. They should have been linked together with tendons and muscles under a sheath of shy kid shaped skin, but there they were. Buried, in the turtle sandpit, in the children’s playground, in the cemetery, on the edge of town, in this story.