and the poets down here Don't write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment And try to make an honest stand but they wind up wounded, not even dead
Damn Bruce is such a poet. We lurves him to pieces, yes we do.
Ok, something I've never done before. (Hey, watch it you gutter minds...) In the spirit of Halloween, I am writing a Halloween story. I am going to post it as a WIP. For those of you not familiar with fanfiction, (the majority of you I suspect) that stands for Work in Progress. I will write the story as I go along, and as I do post updates here for your reading pleasure. And yes, while this is fun for me, and lets me stretch my creative juices, it's a fine marketing tool to get people to come read my blog every day. :)
My kids gave me about eleven prompts, of which I have used about 4 so far, LOL.
Every Day is Halloween
An originally piece of fiction by G,
No infringement intended to anyone living or dead, real or fictional.
Casey Allen straightened the bow on her gingham pinafore and stood back to admire herself in the mirror. Damn, the hell with Toto, perhaps the proverbial Hank the farmhand would follow her home in this costume. She had plaited her chestnut hair in two braids down the back of her head, and had a basket of goodies ready.
"Aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?" her roommate Laura asked.
"It depends," she answered, "On what kind of treat you're hoping to get."
"You're a freak," Laura answered, and plopped herself down on the sofa with a bottle of wine and bag of microwave Orville Redenbacher popcorn.
Casey ignored her, and instead slid her finger down the handle of the wicker basket. Its contents would be far more coveted than Snickers and Reese's Cups by the end of the evening. "Are you sure that's enough candy Laura?" She asked, glancing over toward the bowl by the apartment door. "Last year we ran out, don't you remember?"
"Well you know what; first come, first served, right?"
"Yeah, well you can take care of the last served too. I'm not cleaning eggs and shaving cream off the door again this year."
It was Laura's turn to do the ignoring, so Casey took her basket, smoothed her dress, and let herself out into the night.
Despite a degree in anthropology, and a position at The American Museum of Natural History, Casey's passion was reserved for something most unnatural. Ever since a childhood incident involving a Ouija board, she'd been obsessed with the supernatural, or the paranormal. Her friend Mary swore she wasn't faking it, that the message really channeled through from her grandmother, warning Mary about the boy she wanted to date. Casey would never be able to forget that heart shaped plastic form, sliding blithely across the board, spelling out: No no Mary no pool no Bobby. It was so freaky. Casey believed it really was her friend's grandma's spirit. Why would Mary want to say bad things on purpose about this boy she liked right?
Tonight of all nights; the Eve of all Hallows, the Night of All Souls, was the best chance to bear witness to the spirits---perhaps even catch one! Casey was prepared for anything. In her basket she carried various implements reputed to ward off or capture evil: garlic, a cross, a colt 45 with silver bullets, a mirror, and a rope. She also had a few Luna Bars and some Gatorade tucked away in there for stamina. All this she carried onto the 7 train out to Flushing Meadows. Tonight the park would be alive.
The train wasn't very crowded, a fact Casey thought strange given the fact that it was a weeknight and not quite nine o'clock. An elderly black woman sat across from her, in a hounds tooth grey coat that looked like it just walked out of a thrift store. In between her feet rested two Macy's The Cellar shopping bags. She had a bible in her lap; the red satin ribbon protruding from its pages heralded whatever scripture held relevance for her at that moment. Casey wondered what it was.
A man entered the car from the one adjoining. Everyone turned to look as the iron door latch snapped, and the noise and wind from the tunnel swept in along with him until it slid shut. He looked like someone who stepped out of a spy movie, dressed all in black, from the stocking cap on his head---under which slight brown curls defiantly popped out, to the faded stone jeans that were too long and dragged over the heels of his Doc Marten boots. He walked with purpose through the subway car, past Casey and the black woman, and through the door passage to the next car up. The car rocked rhythmically and began its ascent toward 111th Street as we all went back to staring at our feet. One more stop Casey thought.
To be continued...