Happy Halloween!
Well, that's quite enough of that.
I'll be posting every other day in November, but I have projects to which I must turn my attention. Thank you all for reading along, and thanks in particular to those kind souls who've commented and cheered me. :)
Now, a little trifle for Halloween, inspired by mist on the green on my and Master Danger's walk at sunrise. Now, dawn is a good time of day, but sunset....
The hollows in the park are dangerous, the sunset walkers tell each other in whispers.
The park itself looks ordinary, a green square in the midst of an old grey city, with one path curving in and out of trees older than any locals’ memories. The shadows of the old trees are fine, however. It’s the two depressions in the greensward, the ones that look like a giant’s thumbprints, that are the problem.
Mist rises there at sunset, and the sounds of heavy footsteps, closer, closer. Stray cats hiss at the borders then, and three crows sit on a log and watch the coming of night.
When the sun is just at the point of setting this Halloween night, one woman ignores her friends’ repeated warnings. She wants to go back and give out the Milky Ways, put on Young Frankenstein, tease her new husband into bed. But first she has to let her husband’s dog - her dog, too, she supposes - get his run on before the trick-or-treaters start ringing.
There by the west hollow, she unclips his leash. “Go on, Ishmael. Go on.”
The dog bellies into lip-curled submission, not moving, eyes on the hollow. Crow sounds a note of derision. Dog doesn’t move.
“Come on, Ishmael,” the woman says, “let’s get this over with,” and she begins to run toward the hollow.
Mist rises. Footsteps. And before the oldest sunset walker can scream, the woman is taken.
“They never listen,” the second-oldest walker says to the oldest, there on the sweetest curve of the path, where sunlight still reaches.
The oldest nods, sad, resigned. “Should have as much sense as their dogs. Never do.” She takes a spare leash out of her pocket and calls to Ishmael. He bounds toward the walker, away from the hollow.
Listen. Listen to what they tell you in whispers.
............................
For those who celebrate this day, may it be a good turn in the year! May it be good for us all.
I'll be posting every other day in November, but I have projects to which I must turn my attention. Thank you all for reading along, and thanks in particular to those kind souls who've commented and cheered me. :)
Now, a little trifle for Halloween, inspired by mist on the green on my and Master Danger's walk at sunrise. Now, dawn is a good time of day, but sunset....
The hollows in the park are dangerous, the sunset walkers tell each other in whispers.
The park itself looks ordinary, a green square in the midst of an old grey city, with one path curving in and out of trees older than any locals’ memories. The shadows of the old trees are fine, however. It’s the two depressions in the greensward, the ones that look like a giant’s thumbprints, that are the problem.
Mist rises there at sunset, and the sounds of heavy footsteps, closer, closer. Stray cats hiss at the borders then, and three crows sit on a log and watch the coming of night.
When the sun is just at the point of setting this Halloween night, one woman ignores her friends’ repeated warnings. She wants to go back and give out the Milky Ways, put on Young Frankenstein, tease her new husband into bed. But first she has to let her husband’s dog - her dog, too, she supposes - get his run on before the trick-or-treaters start ringing.
There by the west hollow, she unclips his leash. “Go on, Ishmael. Go on.”
The dog bellies into lip-curled submission, not moving, eyes on the hollow. Crow sounds a note of derision. Dog doesn’t move.
“Come on, Ishmael,” the woman says, “let’s get this over with,” and she begins to run toward the hollow.
Mist rises. Footsteps. And before the oldest sunset walker can scream, the woman is taken.
“They never listen,” the second-oldest walker says to the oldest, there on the sweetest curve of the path, where sunlight still reaches.
The oldest nods, sad, resigned. “Should have as much sense as their dogs. Never do.” She takes a spare leash out of her pocket and calls to Ishmael. He bounds toward the walker, away from the hollow.
Listen. Listen to what they tell you in whispers.
............................
For those who celebrate this day, may it be a good turn in the year! May it be good for us all.