The Ubiquitous Halloween Post

For those of you who don't know, I graduated from college about 18 months ago (yes, fellow grads, it really has been that long) with a very valuable degree in English with an Emphasis on Creative Writing, which probably explains why I retain the odd fascination with notebooks and pens that I do.

Creative Writing majors are forced to do many things, some of which seemingly have nothing to do with actual writing. A lot of it has to do with reading your peers work, often while half-watching an episode of Arrested Development on your computer (this fact probably explains why so many of peer reviews contained a variation of the phrase "I feel as though Character X would be more believable as a rogue agent of the Intergalactic Initiative and leader of the Time Scouts if you worked in a zany uncle character who turned blue at odd intervals.")

Anyway, some of you may be wondering, "Okay then, Snobby McDouchenozzle, what grand works of fiction did you write while holed away in your Bay Area ivory tower of judgment and day-old pizza?" Well, look, obviously I am no Jonathan Safran Foer or Michael Chabon or Valerie Bertinelli or any of the great writers and thinkers of my time. Much of college was spent scrambling to read the week's reading assignment while still reading lots of Gaiman, King, Link, Hill, and Pratchett--all solidly genre writers.

Alas, with Halloween around the corner and all the blogoplane alight with "Decorating Tips for the Holidays" and "Best Gore-Fests of All Time," I decided to join the chorus poorly-worded puns and whatnot.

So, girls and ghouls, pre-scare yourself for a momentously monstrous macabre tale of terror and join me as I sin-troduce some short-short stories I wrote back in cruel-niversity.

Ahem... I will stop that now, I promise. The first is called "The Vulture."

The Vulture

Ow. Ow ow ow. That really hurts. Do you think you could stop doing that please?

Hmm… no.

But you are eating my eyes.

That’s what I’m supposed to do. They are quite delicious.

Right, I understand.

Its just—

Just what?

No, no. Its silly. Please continue.

No, really, what? I can’t eat your eyes until I know what. Come on, then. Look, okay, right? Show of good faith. I will stop eating your eyes. So you can tell me.

Well, that’s very kind of you.

Oh, its nothing. Please, lets not get formal with each other.

Of course not. I guess what I was going to say was, well, I mean we hardly know each other, do we?

I suppose we don’t. But then again I’ve never known any of the names of the things whose eyes I’ve eaten.

So, you’re a vulture, then?

Yeah, suppose so. And you are… wait don’t tell me. A bear? A bear?

What? No, I’m not a bear. I’m a person. A human. A living breathing—

Eh, eh, eh, hate to correct you there, mate. You’re not so living and/or breathing anymore.

Oh right. Yes, yes of course. I had forgotten.

No matter. I wouldn’t eat your eyes if you were living. That’d just be cruel.

I didn’t know vultures were so kind.

Well, you probably didn’t know vultures could talk either did you?

No, can’t say as I did. So, if I’m dead, how am I speaking?

Dunno, friend. There’s very little that happens at this stage that makes any sense at all.

This stage?

The end.

Do you have a name, vulture?

No, can’t say that I do.

Can I give you one?

Sure. But look I’m really quite hungry. And your eyes are going to spoil if they are let out in the sun any longer.

Okay. Well, I’ll call you Horatio.

Horatio, eh? Yeah, that’s not bad.

What’s your name then, friend?

It was Winston.

Hello, Winston.

Hello, Horatio.

I’m going to eat your eyeballs now.

Bon appétit.

Well, I hope you enjoyed that. The next is called "Dear Nana."

Dear Nana,

Mom says I have to write to you and say thanks for

I am writing to you to say thank you for my Christmas gift. It is very nice and I like it very much. How is Granddad? How are Boomer and Mickey? I was sad to hear that Mickey ran into the nettle patch. That must hurt a lot.

Thanks for my Christmas gift, Nana. Even though I asked you for a skateboard. Where did you get it? Mom says it must have cost a lot because of the engraved W on its lid. What does that W mean? Mom says that she used to have a box just like it. But I don’t think she did. I am going to tell you something about that box, Nana, even though Mom says I shouldn’t because she thinks that I am just having nightmares.

After you left Mom said me and Brian had to move all our presents out of the family room. I moved everything upstairs except the Nun Chuks Uncle Pete gave me. Mom took those away and hid them in her closet. I went to bed that night with all my new presents and couldn’t wait to wake up the next morning and play with them.

I put the box you gave me at the bottom of my bed, where my feet stick out. When my feet would touch it, it felt very cold because the whole house gets very cold at night.

I was sleeping fine but then I woke up at 1:34 in the morning. I could hear Mom and Dad downstairs watching TV. I thought my feet were on fire, Nana. It was weird. I hopped out of bed as fast as I could and the cold floor hitting my hot feet made them hurt a little bit. But I didn’t think about it very much.

The reason I didn’t think about it very much is because I couldn’t stop staring at the box you gave me. From between the wood pieces there was this red light pouring out. It was freaky. But I wasn’t real scared because only kids get scared at stuff like that. I was breathing really fast and even though it was super cold I was sweating a lot.

The red light from the box kept growing brighter and brighter. And then it would fade for a bit and come back even brighter than before. Brian said that when things go away and come back and go away and come back it's called “pulsing.” The light was pulsing, Nana. But I wasn’t scared yet.

I got scared when the box started talking to me. Well, actually, it didn’t say anything at first. It just laughed. A deep, grown-up laugh. But not like how Dad laughs when he reads the Sunday comics. It was a laugh like how the kids at school laugh at me when they trip me at lunchtime. It was like that but scarier.

And then the voice said: “They cry in the dark, so you can’t see their tears.”

And then it laughed some more and said: “Hey, kid. Know what that’s from? A song. A song called ‘Hell is for Children.’” And then it laughed even louder than ever before.

Then I ran down the hall and into Mom’s room and found where my Uncle Pete’s Nun Chucks were and ran back down and told the box to shut up! Mom and Dad must've heard all that running because they came up the stairs and yelled at me. I told them about the box but they said I was just dreaming.

I put a lock on the box the next morning, Nana. I don’t want to hear it ever again.

Love, Marty.

Well, that's all from me. I hope everyone has a safe and happy Halloween. Actually, forget safety--be ridiculously reckless as that is, usually, more fun. If you hated these stories (or particularly enjoyed them) please leave a comment below telling me what you thought. There's probably a bite-size Snickers in it for you.

Happy Halloween!