STIATF February 28, 2013

Seven Things I Am Thankful For:  March 1, 2013

EDITOR'S NOTE:  This is not a motivational diatribe...  If you are looking for purpose in your own life, I would look elsewhere (ideally inward, or around you).

1.  My Father
My father is a kind, generous and hardworking man.  He is also a big inspiration to me.  As an English teacher, and the son of of English teacher, he (and my mother) also bestowed a reverence for reading and the written word in me from a very early age.  I am very lucky to have such a solid and steadfast motivator and inspirer providing me with a constant impetus for consistently striving to better myself as both a writer, and a person in general.  My dad also grows a little older today - Happy Birthday Dad!

2.  Jim O'Heir as Jerry Gergich
Parks and Recreation is a great show.  It is easy to focus on the breakout performances of Aubrey Plaza, Chris Pratt, and especially Nick Offerman's Ron Swanson, but it is Jim O'Heir's Jerry that is the unsung hero in my mind.  Tonight's replay of this year's Halloween episode provided a great example of just how relevant the perpetual underdog was to me:  when he had a (SPOILERS) heart attack punctuated by excessive flatulence, I laughed - and quickly grew worried.  Speaking of which...

3.  Halloween
There is no better "holiday" and no better "season" in my mind, than the inherent spookiness of Halloween, and the dry decay of late autumns in Northern Ontario.  Halloween is the only day I can think of that emanates throughout the work of my favourite auteurs.  John Carpenter's film is one of my favourite (and most watched) movies of all time - and while Rob Zombie has always embraced the basis, he also missed the point.  To me, Halloween is a state of mind, and a seasonal presence that is more evocative than Christmas itself!

4.  Thom Yorke
I have long been a fan of Radiohead, and always realized that their quirky, droopy-eyed singer was a big part of the buy-in I experienced.  I have seen Radiohead in concert multiple times and revere both their artistry, and their commitment to the obscure.  I know people who were passionate fans of different "eras" of Radiohead music that can no longer tolerate the band's elasticity.  It is that very elasticity that keeps me engaged with them - they are one of the only bands I can think of who constantly strive for musical evolution.  I am listening to Thom Yorke's Atoms For Peace side project "AMOK" as I write this.

5.  Finding Old Things
Today I found an old note from a man who was voted as "one of the most important people in the history of Canada" by Maclean's magazine.  That note is featured in the photo at the head of this entry.  That is an impressive title, and it was bestowed upon a man for whom I have a great deal of respect and reverence.  I also hope to be working with him on a short film project in the coming months.

6.  Producing Short Films
There are two reasons why I love producing short films.  The first reason why I really love producing short films, is because I don't have time to produce full length ones.  The second reason why I love producing short films is because it has provided me with the confidence to start working on my first feature length film.  For me, film and life tend to be a juggling act.

7.  Jane Espenson
Not only has she been a part of some of my favourite pieces of entertainment (seriously, look her up) but it was one of her frequent WRITING SPRINT challenges on Twitter that inspired me to post this tonight.  It was that same kick in the butt that lead me to realize I have had a great deal of traffic to my blog despite the fact that my last post was on October 31 (Halloween) of 2012 (see #3).  I need to increase my posts, and I will thanks to one of my favourite entertainers:  Jane Espenson...

See you all again soon -

Mike

Story-A-Day #339: Voices

VOICES

It was a cool, crisp Sunday and I was making my home from a birthday party that had turned into a random overnight stay with a girl that I had just met.  We had shared her bed, and a few stories about each other, but that was it.  I thought things might end up going somewhere exciting, but the chaste evening of cuddles and comfort had been enough - I wasn't looking for anything more anyway.  Besides, I was pretty drunk, so it probably would have ended in embarrassment had things escalated any further.  I'm honest enough to be able to admit to that.

We bid a mostly comfortable farewell at her door, accompanied by an exchange of chaste cheek kisses, then I set out for home, the smell of the night before oozing from my pores despite the fresh breeze blowing through the morning.  It had been a good night, and I was confident that I would actually call, or at the very least send a text message to, the number I had just punched into my phone.  That could wait though.  For now, all I could think of was a nice warm shower to sluice off the remnants of the night before.

The cool breeze buffeted me as I made my way along the leaf-strewn street, whipping my heavily laden jacket pockets in every direction.  I could hear a half emptied tin of mints jangling hollowly with every gust.  Moments later, I could hear another sound, a hushed urgent chanting.  I paused, straining to hear above the blowing wind.

I could just make out the words, barely discernible over the breeze.  "We've been waiting for you.  We've been needing you," the voices murmured.  There was an oddly discordant tone to the voice, not quite masculine, not quite feminine.  It was almost an animalian voice, if animals were capable of speech.

I noticed the grate in the ground next to me.  I had passed a few of them on my way home, and it seemed, unlikely as it was, that the metal slats were the source for the sounds I had been hearing.  I stepped closer, bending down so I could peer into the gloomy depths, and the voices returned.

"He is perfect.  Just what we need."

I frowned, and was about to take a closer look when my phone vibrated.  I had a new text message.  "Thanks for a great night. hope to hear from you soon."

I was just typing in my response when the first tendril shot out of the grill and lashed around my neck.  The grating slid to the side and I found myself being dragged into the dark and along a narrow tunnel strewn with leaves.

"So happy to have you," the voices echoed.

The last thing I saw was my phone's screen, the service indicator whirling as the message I had been sending got lost in the dark.  She would never know how happy I was to have met her.

The screen winked to black.

Story-A-Day #338: Mugwump

MUGWUMP

My grandfather was an avid fisherman, more at home on the water than he was on dry land.  When I was young, I remember him swimming across the lake and back every morning as part of his daily ritual.  His broad, shoulders and powerful arms would cycle effortlessly, pulling his body through the often choppy water with ease.  He was a big bear of a man, but he definitely seemed at home in the water.  That's what makes his disappearance so suspect.

Lake Temiskaming is a deep one, cold and brutal when she wants to be.  She has claimed many lives over the years, just as she has claimed her stake in the glacier carved Canadian Shield of Northern Ontario.  She can be a fierce mistress, but she is one that my grandfather had undoubtedly tamed.

When they found his motorboat, abandoned and turning in a slow, endless circle, they assumed that he had fallen overboard, possibly bumped his head on the way into the cold autumn waters.  They never did find his body, but they chalked it up to an accidental death by drowning.

It's nonsense of course.  He was strong and fit.  I've watch him effortlessly pull in a 24-pound pike in a canoe, so nothing could have caused him to lose his footing, fall into the lake, and bang his head on the side of a fifteen-foot aluminum.  He was simply too much of a man to succumb to such a mundane death.

My grandfather was tough and rugged, but he was also a gifted storyteller.  He would concoct great fables about his escapades, and when he did, he would tell them with great conviction.  The only sign that he was telling one of his fables was the inevitable twinkle in his eye.  That twinkle was his tell.  Still, there was one story he would tell that was different, one that he would tell with equal conviction, but without the mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Legend has it that a great beast lives in the dark and murky depths of Lake Temiskaming, one that locals on both the Ontario and Quebec shores refer to as Mugwump.  The descriptions vary, but my grandfather's is the one I stand by because I am quite certain he had encountered Mugwump as a younger man.

He described the beast as a serpent, although broader than a typical snake, and far larger - at least 40-feet long by his recollections.  He told me a story about how he had been fishing early one morning, and was reeling in a great catch.  It was an epic battle of man versus nature, the great pike leaping from the waters as it fought to dislodge his hard planted hook.  On one of those leaps, an even greater prize erupted through the surface and caught the fish in mid-air.  the splash as Mugwump tumbled back into the waters almost tipped his boat.

He told me how he had leaned over the side of the boat and watched as the great beast passed beneath, it's cold black saucer sized eye staring at him as it passed below.  The monster, my grandfather had assured me, had issued a challenge; one in which there would only be one true victor.

It might sound crazy, but I am positive that Mugwump returned and that my grandfather failed that challenge.  I think Mugwump had her revenge.  As I stare out over these cool autumnal waters today, I can almost feel her presence, a forbidding challenge that rises up from the deeps.  I almost feel as though she is calling out for a new challenger, one who might do better than the man who tamed the untamable depths of this great prehistoric lake.

I am afraid that I am not that man, but I will try.  It's what my grandfather would have wanted...

Story-A-Day #337: A Good Man

A GOOD MAN

I know it probably doesn't look like it, but I'm a good man.  I know the beard is a little offsetting, and the dark cloak in particular, but I'm a good man and I look like this for a reason.  I have to look like this in order to be welcomed into the Brethren.

The Brethren are not good men.  They are a scourge of rapists, murderers, and victimizers who prey on the weaknesses of humanity.  They operate as a religious group, but their practices are obscure and outdated.  They are a misogynistic, self-important bunch who want nothing more than to revel in their own glory.  As far as I can tell, Christ plays no role in their religion.

I have joined them for a very simple reason, one that is almost as debased as their own motivations.  I have joined them because I want revenge.

This group of middle aged men has always operated under the auspices of freedom of religion, but I have grown to learn that there is no religion here.  They are a godless bunch who bow down to the alters of power, corruption, and subversion.  Their church is one founded on lies, deceit and destruction.

In order to make it as far as I have, I have had to do a number of things that have sickened me to my core.  There is nothing noble or honest about this religion of theirs, but I have done what I needed to do, and will continue to do so until the iron is hot and I can finally strike.

I have been welcomed into their cult of gloom and I will tear it asunder from within.  There is no place in this world for the evils they cultivate, no place for the utter lack of morality they display.

I will sodomize this monstrous entity from within, castrate it of its power and watch the perpetrators bleed out in a slow and agonizing fashion.  They deserve no better, and they will receive no less than the pain they have thrived on bestowing.

I am a good man, but I wasn't good enough to keep you safe.  That is the error of my ways, and it is one I am to rectify this very night.  With the full moon shining down from above, I will raze this church of hate and put an end to the misery they have bestowed onto me.  And I will do it for revenge, and I will do it for you.

Story-A-Day #336: Thursday The 13th

THURSDAY THE 13TH

Everyone knows that Friday the 13th is supposed to be an unlucky day.  Folklore, urban legends, and even Hollywood with its hockey masked killer and his mother, have helped propagate the legend of that one particular day.  What most don't seem to realize is that the "unlucky" actually is hinged to the number and not the day.

Take today for example; a beautiful October afternoon with the sun shining down and unseasonably warm temperatures.  It is a perfect day for a walk in the woods.  It is a perfect day for a nice stroll in the woods, to admire the fall foliage in its resplendent shades of yellow, orange, and red.

Look, here is a person now who has decided to take advantage of the day with just such an excursion.  She is young and vibrant, full of life.  Her dark hair cascades beautifully around her perfectly made up face.  Her tight yoga pants cling perfectly to the curves of her hips, buttocks, thighs, and calves.  You can see every rippling motion of her firm young musculature just beneath the surface of the clinging black fabric.  Her moderately sized breasts push out against her equally tight top, obvious even with the loose jacket she wears on top.

She is a picture of perfection, a healthy and happy young woman who is excited to be spending a languid afternoon on the trails.

She is probably thinking about the upcoming weekend, and the fun she will have with her friends.  Maybe she is even thinking about a guy from work and how she hopes he will bring her home this weekend for a bit of debauched non-committal copulation.  Then again, maybe she's not the type...

Either way, it doesn't matter because she won't live to see the weekend.  You see, today is her unlucky day because she is not alone on these secluded trails.  I am there with her, a few short strides behind, and I know that the bright sunshine, and warm weather is a mere misdirection.  Everything seems perfect, but in a reality, it is far from it.

Today is Thursday the 13th, and for this beautiful young specimen, it is definitely an unlucky day.

Story-A-Day #335: Ex Machina

EX MACHINA

The common theory has always been that it is viruses or bots that bring down our technology.  I thought so too.  Technology is a great tool, but it is fallible as well, so it makes perfect sense that a malicious string of code could affect our digital world.

In most instances, that would definitely be the case.  My former business partner certainly thought so and his diligence and hard work made us both very rich.  He was a genius with technology and when a virus did bring down a computer network, he was able to isolate and eradicate it within hours.  He was truly gifted in that sense.

He was also an exceedingly paranoid individual.  I used to make fun of him as he grumbled about the unseen forces who were out to get him, as he battled with online forces that he almost personified.  I should have listened to him.

His paranoia had been growing steadily worse over the past few months and he kept talking about the Deus Ex Machina of his work, an unseen force that was somehow enabling his abilities.  He talked about it as though this force was using him to do its bidding, and that it was slowly taking him over, "pirating" him.

It sounded like another eccentric rant from a man known for his eccentricities.  I should have listened.  Two weeks ago, I found him sitting at a computer terminal in our work room.  The room was bathed in the blue glow of start up screens, and he was hunched over his terminal.  I knew he was dead before I had crossed the room, but I needed to make sure.  The sight of his stiff body was shocking, but the contents of his screen were even more alarming.

The words Ex Machina were repeated hundreds of times in a blank Notepad document.  At the end, was a final notation:  It came for me.

I took a couple days off, but eventually I had to return to work and face the inevitable challenges of carrying on without the real brains of our operation to do the hard work.  When I got into my office, there was an email waiting for me.  It was dated that day, and it was from my partner.  I clicked it open and was great with two simple words in an overcompensating 40-point Arial font:  "You're next".

At first, I chalked it up as a prank, but since that email, I have seen those words everywhere: on debit machine screens, in banner ads on websites, in the evening news ticker tapes.  It seems impossible, but I am starting to wonder if there might have been some truth to his crazy ramblings, if maybe there is in fact some higher force that exists in the digital realm, and if there is, whether I might truly be next to suffer the fate of my partner.

Perhaps the line of work we chose had somehow offended this power and it was striking back.  It sounds crazy, I know, but I can't help but consider the possibilities.

Story-A-Day #334: Preparations

PREPARATIONS

It probably looks like I am a typical cat.  I certainly wouldn't blame you for thinking so.  Look at me, all curled up and cute in my little cardboard box.  I am a stereotype, granted, but my actions at the moment have been earned.

I need my rest now.  October is upon us and the nights are getting longer.  Once the sun goes down, I will remain vigilant.  I must do so in order to keep owner safe.  When the darkness comes creeping in and the foul winds of tonight's storm ripple through the trees, I will be hard at work.

This is a month of horror, and yet my owner remains completely unaware of the risk she faces.  They are out there in the night, devilish creatures who long for the souls of the humans who mock them  through ignorance.

They creep through the shadows, blending into the dark.  They are an unseen presence, that strange sensation of neck hairs standing on end.  They would strike at a moment's notice, just as sleep claims its stake, but they will not do so on my watch.

As night descends, I will make my exit.  I spend my nights prowling the yard ad seeking them out.  They have no names, for names are power, but what they do have is an aversion to my kind.  Three nights ago, I watched them slay a dog, a big, ferocious beast that fell like autumn leaves under their assault.

And yet, when I appeared, they stole away into the night, vanishing back into the embrace of shadows that fills this yard.  For now, I am a sleeping cat, but once darkness comes my claws and teeth will be the only thing keeping my owner alive.  She is lucky to be so ignorant to this threat.  She is lucky to have me looking out for her.

She is lucky that I am making these preparations, and that I have the cunning to enter the night and slay those who would harm her.  That is my mission.

Story-A-Day #332: Flashes

FLASHES

The voices had been calling to her for weeks, dark and sinister message of hate and pain.  She wasn't the type to experience such things.  She was a well-rounded 15-year-old who did well in school, had a broad circle of friends, and a loving and supportive family.  She did well in school, played on a number of teams, and didn't fall into the trappings of youth that some of her friends did in time.

She was a good girl, but over the past few weeks, she had started to change.  Her parents had expressed their concern, but she didn't know how to explain the voices.  They would think she was crazy.  Instead, she told them that she was under a lot of pressure at school, trying to get things done under some tight deadlines.  They seemed okay with that explanation.

What was she supposed to do, tell them that there were voices in her head urging her to kill, maim and destroy?  They were non-specific urges, and she didn't really understand most of what they were saying, but it seemed like that was the gist of it.  They were growing more consistent now too, like a constant hum, a chant of destruction.  They kept her awake at night, which made everything even harder to deal with.

She woke up crying most mornings, feeling as though she had only just fallen asleep, which was in fact the case on most mornings.  On a cool morning in October, she wandered down into the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal.  As she set it on the counter to pour in the milk, she noticed a knife left over from dinner the night before.  She picked it up and shifted its weight in her hand.

It felt good, a natural extension of her arm.  She spun it around in her hand and peered into the cold steel blade.  For a moment, it looked like she could see a bright door reflected in the cold, grey steel of the blade.  An escape.

She raised the blade high over her head and heard her mother call out her name as she stepped into the kitchen.  she turned towards the door and smiled at her mum, then quickly drove the blade down into her own stomach, once, twice, a dozen times.  With each downward thrust, the blade flashed and the reflection of the doorway grew brighter.

She raised it once more, looking for a thirteenth stab, but the blade fell uselessly from her hand and clattered across the kitchen floor.  A moment later, she collapsed next to it.  The voices were gone now.  She lay on the cold ceramic tiles, and stared across the room at her mother as a pool of warm, red blood, slowly grew around her.

"I love you," she managed to mouth, a bubble of blood bursting outwards from her lips as she did.

The sound of her mother's screams filled the silence as the kitchen slowly faded to black.

Story-A-Day #331: How To Save A Life

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

I had my earbuds in so I almost didn't notice her standing in the shadows.  In fact, there is no reason why I should have noticed her at all.  She called out to me, and somehow I heard her hushed voice over the music that filled my head.  Two simple words that froze me in my tracks.

"Help me."

I paused, pulling the buds from my ears and tucking them casually into the pocket on the chest of my shirt.  As I did, I scanned my surroundings, looking for where the voice might have come from.  the moon was ful in the sky above and it cast eerie shadows over the construction site to my right as it danced through the drifitng clouds.

"Hello?" I called out uncertainly into the night.  "Is there somebody there?"

It was then that I caught the flicker of white in one of the half finished houses.  At first I thought it might be a stray piece of plastic blowing in the breeze, but there was a fluidity to the movement that made it seem unlikely.

"Hello," I called out again.  "Is everything okay?"

I took a few tentative steps towards the house just as the voice repeated the same two words with a sense of hushed urgency.  "Help me."  It was almost like it was in my mind, and not actually a voice at all.

I quickly crossed the dirt yard and stepped into the house, pausing just inside the doorway.  I was about to head upstairs when I caught annother flash of white in the basement.  I slowly made my way down the stairs, calling out quietly as I did.  "Hello?"

"Have you come to help me?" the voice asked in the same sultry monotone.  I turned quickly and found myself face-to-face with a beautiful woman.  He emerald eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, and her alabaster skin gleamed, almost fading into the fabric of her shear white gown.

"What's the matter?" I asked, feeling surprisingly calm as she stepped towards me.

She placed her hands on my chest and I was surprised by how cold they were.  She leaned in close, her mouth right by my ear, and placed her cold ruby lips against my neck.  It was a little early for a reward, but I was powerless to object.  A moment later, I felt a sharp pinch on my neck, but I was immobilised, unable to step back or retreat.

As I stood there, powerless against her, I felt my knees grow week.  My vision started to blur around the edges and I gave in to the powerful feeling of dread, my final words echoing through my head.  "What's the matter..."

She replied, almost as though she could hear the pitiful mantra reverbrating through my head, through my blood.  Again, it was as though her voice was coming from within me.  "I was so hungry, but you have saved me."

Story-A-Day #330: Lanternalia

LANTERNALIA

Why do they carve jack-o-lanterns for Halloween?  Would you believe me if I told you that it was simple matter of warding off the evil spirits?  Look around this neighbourhood, son.  See the porches and decks of the people who live near us?  Pumpkins at every turn.  Am I right?

It's okay that you don't fully understand why, just know that those legumes, those gourds, are there for us.  They will become a deterrent to us, an omen of ill portent.  I know, right now they look no more intimidating than Mrs. Howarth down the street, but come our night, they will be different.  For now they are a dumpy insult on all that we are, and all that we represent, just like that tacky home maker Howarth and her horrendous wreaths.

Here's the thing son, the thing I have been trying to communicate to you for a while now.  You know that we are different.  You know that we are not like them, but we must do what we can to fit in.  We must do whatever we can to ingratiate ourselves unto them.

It is easy for us to be ignored, but we can be ignored no longer.  We are in the witching season no, which means that over the next few weeks, they will be hollowing out those gourds and carving hideous faces into them.  They will be creating their lanternalia once more and when they do, they will seek to cast us out.

I understand how difficult this is for you.  I've been trapped in this prison for far longer than you and I have learned that there are times when we must stalk the shadows, and times when we must make our presence felt.  This is one of those times.

Should we delay too long the lanterns will cast us back into the gloaming.  Are you with me?

Story-A-Day #329: Piles

PILES

They crop up everywhere, piles of leaves that weren't there the day before.  It's a natural part of the season, a scraping up of the summer leftovers, discarded remnants of a season just dying off.  The thing is, when it comes to death, seasons and people are no different.

Have you ever been around someone who is preparing, wittingly or not so much, to exit this mortal coil.  Things become different.  People become different.  All sins are forgotten, all grievances overlooked, and the beatification of the individual becomes the soul focus.  The sole soul focus.  Only the best of the individual reamins, as though all else was just a fleeting moment.

The same thing happens when a season gives up its tenure and passes the reigns on to the next in succession.  When autumn dies off, it is through a gradual burial under the white opprossion of winter.  When winter dies off, it is a slow and steady decrease in strength that eventual collapses under the heat of spring.  When spring dies off, it does so willingly, quite content to have blazed a trail for summer.

But when summer dies, it does so with great remorse.  Summer is the season people cling to.  It is a time of warmth and promise, and bright, long days.  As the rakes crawl across the fading longs and scrape up the magnificent fallen coats of the trees, summer clings hard.  Sometimes summer will reemerge in a late-season blast of heat and sunshine.  Sometimes summer will sulk of into hibernation.

Most years summer laments its own passing.  It revolts against the piled up leaves, the memories of warmer, sunnier days, with gusts of fierce wind.  The thing is, autumn holds dominion over all other seasons.

It holds the secrets to graceful transition beneath those piles of leaves.  Autumn knows better that all seasons, that the passage of time is transient.  Autumn knows best how to cut short the reign of its precursor, and cut short the tenure of its successor.

Beneath the piles of summer, autumn confines the secrets to transitions.  Autumn facilitates the passage from life to death and into rebirth.  Beneath those autumnal piles, new life begins, and old life passes onwards, carried away by a cold blown kiss.

Such is the nature of autumn, an omniscient and powerful force that dictattes the rules fo nature unlike any of its contemporaries.  That is why autumn commands so much power.  It can grace us with the best of summer late into the year, or hammer us with the worst of winter long before winter has any claim to its rightful dominion.

Story-A-Day #328: Tangles

TANGLES

The store was empty and they were just about ready to lock up. He looked over at Marci, who was staring vacantly at her watch.

"Why don't you head out?" he offered. "I can finish up here."

She shrugged indifferently and let herself out through the front doors. He watched her wander off across the parking lot, her bottom rolling ever so teasingly in her tight black pants.

She was a knockout for sure, but sometimes talking to her gave the impression that she was actually knocked out. There wasn't much happening upstairs, but she was okay.

As he turned back into the store to finish up the last of the closing duties, he heard the sound. He had been sure he had heard something earlier, but this time it was undeniable; a frantic scratching up in the ceiling tiles.

Mice maybe? Whatever it was up there, he needed to know. After a quick glance around, he climbed up onto the counter and after a brief moment of uncertainty, pulled of his phone and booted up his flashlight app.

When he was ready, he extended upward and pushed the ceiling tile up into the empty space above. The scratching noise stopped.

Using the bright LED glow from his phone, he surveyed the enclosure, a dark tangle of pipes, wires, and vents. He peered deep into the darkness, trying to make out any movement beyond the twisting of shadows.

There was nothing there.

He slid his phone back into his pocket and was just pulling the ceiling tile over when he heard the noise again. It was rushing towards him. He dropped down, suddenly filled with terror, and was about to roll down to the floor when the first muscular tendril wrapped itself around his neck. More shot out of the dark hole above clasping at his arms, legs, and torso. He felt himself being lifted upward, dragged into the darkness above by the leathery tentacles. He struggled against the binding force of the tangles, but it was useless, as he slowly disappeared into the ceiling, he saw the rows of gleaming teeth and angry red eyes that waited for him, drawing him closer inch, by inch, by inch.

As the snapping jaws drew close, a flurry of motion drew his eyes, a small grey mouse scurrying off into the dark.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone. Please excuse auto corrected errors!

Story-A-Day #327: Punchin' Judy

PUNCHIN' JUDY

Ever since Judy was a young girl, all the back as far as she could remember, she had not liked clowns.  She had been a meek child and assumed that it was the clown's propensity for grandeur that had soured her, but as a young woman, she realized the issue was much more deeply rooted.

Judy was a xenophobe, afraid of all things alien.  She was not agoraphobic; she had a job and friends that she would visit, but she definitely had a comfort zone that had its limitations.  She did not like trying new things; whether they were foods, routes to work, making new friends, or partaking in grander life experiences.  She knew what she liked and figured she would stick with those things that granted her pleasure.

It only made sense that clowns; with their makeup, and costumes, and rambunctious behaviour would set her on edge.  They were not natural.  They were alien to her pre-defined set of rules and regulations for the way things ought to be.

Still, they were oddly fascinating, which is no doubt what had convinced her to bring one home.  It was a Halloween decoration and therefore even more ghastly that then ones most were accustomed to, but she thought that if she were to display the effigy in a place of prominence within her apartment, then she might grow to understand her fear.

As her day drew to a close, she set about shutting off her appliances and making sure the doors were locked, then she walked into her bedroom and stared at the the clown that she had placed deliberately in the corner of the room.  It stared back at her with unblinking glassy, plastic eyes.

She climbed into her bed and flipped through a  few chapters of her book before shutting the lights off.  Something felt off.  She rolled over onto her other side.  This continued for an hour until finally, exasperated, she reached up and clicked on her bedside lamp.  She glanced towards the corner of the room, for no particular reason, and realized the clown was no longer hanging where she had left it.

She sat up to gain a better view of the floor in that corner of the room.  A sudden burst of colour and laughter swept in on her from the opposite direction and she just caught a glimpse of an ashen white face and bulbous red nose before the polka-dot gloved fist slammed into her temple.

The world faded to black, and as it did, she thought she could just make out a raspy laugh.

Story-A-Day #324: October

OCTOBER

It is a season for both Harvests and Witches. It is a special month where they line between the living and the dead grows thin, a month of passages.

Boys pass into adulthood as they conquer their fears; crops pass into waste as the frost settles in; even the trees pass from their full regalia to a blanket of discarded dreams around their sad, skeletal frames.

It is a time for celebration and joy following the success of a bust harvest. It is a time for sadness and regret as the days grow shorter and winter announces it arrival. It is a time for fear and anticipation as the mysteries and fear of the unknown grow ever more prominent and things truly do go bump in the night.

October is the month where everything changes. Days fade to night, warm becomes cold, and all that is becomes what was. It is a month that is defined by transition.

Death permeates the month. Crispy leaves skid along empty streets, farmers fields are stripped barren.

It is a sad and lonely month, but one filled with promise and hope. It is the most magical of night's, and it has arrived.

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