October: Her crisp autumnal air clearing and refreshing the soul, her harvest nourishing the flesh.
Michael Myers emerges from the shadows; the glint of moonlight on the blade momentarily blinds.
Fallen leaves of another season dance on the wind in melange vortexes of orange, red and yellow.
The mummy breathes a millennium-old breath, scattering dust from its yellowed wraps into the still air of the dark crypt.
The pumpkins sit amongst the brown, tortured grass in a patch beyond the knee-high gray stone farmer’s wall. They wait for a child’s hand to break their twisted umbilical to the Earth.
A glint in his dark eyes makes her freeze, allowing him to sink his fangs into the protruding rhythmically throbbing veins on her pink neck. The tearing of flesh sends a shiver through her body and she slowly closes her eyes. As the vampire begins to drain her lifeforce, she can only moan with pleasure.
Michael Myers emerges from the shadows; the glint of moonlight on the blade momentarily blinds.
Fallen leaves of another season dance on the wind in melange vortexes of orange, red and yellow.
The mummy breathes a millennium-old breath, scattering dust from its yellowed wraps into the still air of the dark crypt.
The pumpkins sit amongst the brown, tortured grass in a patch beyond the knee-high gray stone farmer’s wall. They wait for a child’s hand to break their twisted umbilical to the Earth.
A glint in his dark eyes makes her freeze, allowing him to sink his fangs into the protruding rhythmically throbbing veins on her pink neck. The tearing of flesh sends a shiver through her body and she slowly closes her eyes. As the vampire begins to drain her lifeforce, she can only moan with pleasure.
Flickering yellow candlelight emanates from within the hollowed corpse of a Jack O'Lantern that sits sentry on the porch of a white-shingled house. The glow drifts out roughly cut triangular eyes, nose and teeth. Barely perceptible and unnoticed, the pumpkin moves ever-so-slightly of its own accord.
He leaves the warmth of the pub behind, turning for a fleeting gin-blurred glimpse to the swaying wooden Green Griffin sign that swings from the building's old wall. Penetrating the thick fog of the moor, he moves toward the dimly lit kitchen window of his farmhouse in the distance. A snarling sound emerges from the enveloping darkness, lingers and then disappears on the wisps of moisture. The sound quickly escalates to a growl. It is close and loud. He passes out from fear and falls to the squishy ground, awakening only to witness his innards being torn from his abdomen by the feeding werewolf.
He leaves the warmth of the pub behind, turning for a fleeting gin-blurred glimpse to the swaying wooden Green Griffin sign that swings from the building's old wall. Penetrating the thick fog of the moor, he moves toward the dimly lit kitchen window of his farmhouse in the distance. A snarling sound emerges from the enveloping darkness, lingers and then disappears on the wisps of moisture. The sound quickly escalates to a growl. It is close and loud. He passes out from fear and falls to the squishy ground, awakening only to witness his innards being torn from his abdomen by the feeding werewolf.
The eve of Samhain; the dead warm themselves by your fire.
The twisted and tortured black tree trunk is stark against the carpet of fire-colored leaves. Its ancient grimaced face and twisted roots demarcate the periphery of the dark and foreboding woods.
She screams and stumbles, trips back up, and begins to run again. Somehow, above the whine of the revving chain saw and from behind his hockey mask, she can hear the maniac's slow and deep breathing. She falls again and whimpers. Surprisingly, the teeth of the chainsaw tickle as they start to sink into the meat of her thigh.
The scarecrow’s tattered brown clothes twitch in the gentle breeze of the freshly cut hay field. Its arms are outstretched and head hung low as if suspended by a hook sunk between shoulder blades. A dull red glows from the dark pits of its cloth eyes.
When the lights finally came on and the tortured babble of tongues ceased, Eleanor realizes that it is not Theodora’s hand she was holding; as she is far across the shadow-filled room. Eleanor’s hand aches from the cold, tight grip she assumed belonged to her friend. She shivers and wonders aloud, "Who was holding my hand?"
The smell of cider and cinnamon floats to my nostrils and the warmth of the fire brings blood to my cheeks. I leave the twilight and the chill of the eve beyond the now closed door. High in the bare tree branches, the full moon is full, low and yellow. It is trapped in the spiders web of thin bare branches that sway in the fall breeze.
Frankenstein stumbles forward, glaring from beneath his thick brow. The frail farm girl screams and runs for the dark derelict house. A tear travels down the black stitches that adorn the abomination's hash of a cheek.
An anxious rap at the door and muffled "Trick or Treat!" announces the arrival of the greedy hands of a goblin, ninja, Batman, and vampire. Darth Vader is also there, and his arm shyly probes from behind this larger legion of children. The frenzy leaves a third of the sweet candy on the floor. The costumed visitors disappear into the frosty night as quickly as the came. Their departure leaves tattered wrappers from a peanut-butter-cup, Crunch and Butterfinger bar.
Frosty nights with a hint of snow. The long bony fingers of the dark tree, scratching against the window, try to get in. If they manage to open the pane and enter my bedroom, they will bring with them...one shudders to imagine. Under the covers is safe...
The twisted and tortured black tree trunk is stark against the carpet of fire-colored leaves. Its ancient grimaced face and twisted roots demarcate the periphery of the dark and foreboding woods.
She screams and stumbles, trips back up, and begins to run again. Somehow, above the whine of the revving chain saw and from behind his hockey mask, she can hear the maniac's slow and deep breathing. She falls again and whimpers. Surprisingly, the teeth of the chainsaw tickle as they start to sink into the meat of her thigh.
The scarecrow’s tattered brown clothes twitch in the gentle breeze of the freshly cut hay field. Its arms are outstretched and head hung low as if suspended by a hook sunk between shoulder blades. A dull red glows from the dark pits of its cloth eyes.
When the lights finally came on and the tortured babble of tongues ceased, Eleanor realizes that it is not Theodora’s hand she was holding; as she is far across the shadow-filled room. Eleanor’s hand aches from the cold, tight grip she assumed belonged to her friend. She shivers and wonders aloud, "Who was holding my hand?"
The smell of cider and cinnamon floats to my nostrils and the warmth of the fire brings blood to my cheeks. I leave the twilight and the chill of the eve beyond the now closed door. High in the bare tree branches, the full moon is full, low and yellow. It is trapped in the spiders web of thin bare branches that sway in the fall breeze.
Frankenstein stumbles forward, glaring from beneath his thick brow. The frail farm girl screams and runs for the dark derelict house. A tear travels down the black stitches that adorn the abomination's hash of a cheek.
An anxious rap at the door and muffled "Trick or Treat!" announces the arrival of the greedy hands of a goblin, ninja, Batman, and vampire. Darth Vader is also there, and his arm shyly probes from behind this larger legion of children. The frenzy leaves a third of the sweet candy on the floor. The costumed visitors disappear into the frosty night as quickly as the came. Their departure leaves tattered wrappers from a peanut-butter-cup, Crunch and Butterfinger bar.
Frosty nights with a hint of snow. The long bony fingers of the dark tree, scratching against the window, try to get in. If they manage to open the pane and enter my bedroom, they will bring with them...one shudders to imagine. Under the covers is safe...
Happy Halloween!
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