The Fable Online Issue 9 Halloween Special

The Fable Online Issue 9 Halloween, 2015

Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar

Associate Editor Cassiopeia Lancaster

Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Cover created by Isabel Cushey.

Table of Contents Flash Fiction Deedee Loves Peanut Butter

by Fred Senese................................................................................................................................. 4 If You Don't

by Sally Basmajian ......................................................................................................................... 7 Leave The Light On

by Greg Guiliano ............................................................................................................................. 9 Patience

by Shannon Connor Winward ...................................................................................................... 12 The Choice

by Belinda Draper ........................................................................................................................ 14 The Creepy Campground

by Christopher Iacono .................................................................................................................. 16 The Gazing Glass

by Christina Dalcher ..................................................................................................................... 19 The Ghosts of Graveyard Passed

by Bryan Grafton .......................................................................................................................... 21 Violet

by Lynn Mundell ........................................................................................................................... 24 What They Left Behind

by Damien B. Donnelly ................................................................................................................. 25 Short Story Flip Side Forever

by Madeline McEwen .................................................................................................................... 28 Retribution

by Davina Coulthard .................................................................................................................... 46 The Lone Ranger Rides Again

by Michael Coolen......................................................................................................................... 51

Deedee Loves Peanut Butter

by Fred Senese "Maybe he isn't dead."

"Jeez, Anna. Leave it alone. The bus will be there any minute. I miss it again, my mom's gonna kill me."

"Look how red his feathers are. They'd turn black if he was dead. He's just sleeping."

"You'd be a terrible bird keeper. You'd be like, oh, birdie, why won't you eat your seeds?

Don't you like them? He'd start stinking and you'd give him a bath."

"He looks so perfect."

"I hope I never die around you. I'd be dead and you'd say, you're just sleeping."

"Jason. If you were dead, I'd take pictures of you and put them on the wall."

"Why?" "That's what you do when someone dies. You put up pictures. And go see their name on a rock in the cemetery."

"Why?" "You have to remember dead people."

"No, stupid, you have to forget dead people. That's why you bury them in the dirt."

"They didn't do that to Deedee."

"What did they do, then? Stuff her?"

"No. She's in a jar."

"That's really creepy. You're creepy."

"She turned into dust after Daddy's car squashed her. Like, when you put a stake in a vampire? Pssshhhh! Like that."

"No way. Did you see it happen?"

"Maybe."

"You're lying."

"You don't have to see something for it to be real."

"Bring some dust tomorrow. Prove it."

"That'll make her mad."

"She won't get mad. She's dead."

"She's mad all the time. Mostly at Daddy. But she'd be mad at you, too."

"How do you know?"

"She breaks things. She hides things. And Puff watches her all day long. She hisses!"

"Cats are just weird."

"Deedee's hungry. Real hungry. She eats peanut butter right out of the jar."

"Ghosts eat peanut butter?"

"She loves it."

"I'll bet you eat all the peanut butter and blame it on Deedee. That's why you're so fat."

"I can't eat peanut butter. I'm allergic. I'll die if I eat it."

"Why is there a jar in your house, then?"

"Deedee put it there."

"Okay, let me get this straight. Dead Deedee goes to the store and buys peanut butter.

Then she brings it home and eats it in front of you--" "Not in front of me. Under my bed. I woke up this morning? I could smell it. Everywhere.

It gave me a rash. See?" "She's under your bed?"

"I don't see her, but I can hear her eating. At night. Sometimes she'll say things to me.

Like, how good it is."

"You better tell somebody about this."

"I'm telling you."

"I mean, like, tell your dad or your mom."

"You can't say anything bad about Deedee to them. Cause Deedee's just perfect. And they don't talk to me since she died. They don't even look at me. It's like, I'm the ghost."

"Parents are stupid like that. When my mom had a baby--" "Deedee says I can fix everything, all at once."

"Anna? Don't talk to Deedee anymore. Seriously."

"She says it won't hurt."

Fred Senese lives on three acres of land in rural Appalachia with a woman, two sons, and a ghost named Guido. His recent fiction appears or is forthcoming in Zetetic, Saturday Night Reader, The Molotov Cocktail, and others. Find him online atfredsenese.com or @fsenese on Twitter.

If You Don't

by Sally Basmajian

Lilac and vanilla. That’s what he remembered about his wife. Her heavenly smell.

Intoxicating, sensual, innocent.

After Lara’s death, things changed. At first, Max tried. He pottered about in his garden, pulling weeds and planting colourful annuals that somehow always faded and withered, no matter how often he watered them. He gussied up his house for the holidays and bought candy for the kids on Halloween.

But, with each passing year, Max did less. He gave up entirely on his garden, which over time became a bramble patch sprouting a multitude of vicious thorns. His porch sagged like a heavily-burdened hammock; his windows were cracked and filthy with layers of grime.

As for trimming the place for the holidays—well, Max stopped doing that a long time ago.

In fact, one year he never took down his Halloween decorations, and a banner of small, plastic skeletons was now a permanent feature, hanging from his eaves, clicking and jouncing in the wind no matter the season.

Max seldom emerged from his ramshackle house, and, when spotted, would shuffle away, ranting in an incomprehensible but unmistakably hostile way. Folks who lived on the street assumed that the crazy old man would eventually die and that someone new would buy the place and clean it up. Quite frankly, they wished that this would happen sooner rather than later, their own property value being such an important consideration and all.

Autumn had arrived again, in a glory of gold mixed with swatches of brilliant red. The neighbourhood kids were out trick-or-treating, their level of hyper-excitement making their parents rue the day they ever thought having children was a good idea.

Some of the older kids were making the rounds without parental supervision. They were having fun, daring each other to perform feats of mischief and bravery.

Children know that a dare made on Halloween is the very best kind of dare. It is immediate and scary and very public. Nobody can turn one down without being shamed in front of one’s cronies.

And so, Darryl, who was twelve years old and a Halloween veteran, rose nobly to the challenge when his friends dared him to knock on Max’s front door.

“Trick or treat,” the kids chanted. Darryl stood on Max’s rickety porch, kicking at the door.

His more timid pals were clustered on the unkempt front lawn, ready to run like the blazes if anyone actually appeared.

“Smell my feet,” Darryl added. For good measure, he chanted those words again, and then again, kicking the door to the rhythm of his words. He flashed a cocky smile at his buddies as he went kick, kick, kick, smashing his boot into the rotting woodwork.

Enough, it seemed, was enough. Max’s door flew open with a shrill squeal of ungreased hinges. A gnarled, old hand appeared and yanked an astonished Darryl inside. In utter panic, the other kids took off as the door crashed shut. Thus, there were no witnesses when, a few minutes later, Darryl’s shoes and socks were flung out of an old, broken window.

Apparently Darryl’s feet did not smell of lilac and vanilla. But the other kids had all run away. Nobody was around to hear the screaming when it started.

Sally Basmajian has always had an over-active imagination, which she struggled to suppress during her career in broadcasting. In the past year she has loosened up and started to write, and has achieved some success, winning a few prizes for fantasy and creative non-fiction and publishing stories in journals such as Psychology Tomorrow, Penny Shorts, CommuterLit, and Screamin Mamas. She lives in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Canada with her husband and sheltie.

Leave The Light On

by Greg Guiliano

The memories of those who left us are only as far away as we keep them. My mother had fallen terminally sick when I was six and she left us shortly after. She was gone, but I couldn’t let myself forget her. I told my father I would see her around the house. He rejected this, told me I was just imagining things. Mother had passed and, being a household of science, he refused to entertain any notion of supernatural occurrences.

My clearer memories of her are few and far between. I would try to sleep after she would read to me and she’d let me peek my head out of my door so I could see her turning on the hall light for me. My father disapproved. He said it was coddling and unnecessary.

She did it anyway and it became our private ritual, our secret.

Almost a decade has passed and while I no longer need the glow of the hall light to ease my slumber I think of my mother every time I turn the hall light off. Every time I flip that switch I slay a tiny bit of my mother’s ghost.

One night after soccer practice I came home and the lights were all off in the house except for the hall light near my room. I thought nothing of it and turned the light off.

The weird thing was, same thing happened the next day and the day after that.

My dad doesn’t leave lights on. He hates wasting energy and talks about how it drives the bill up. If not him, then who? If I asked him about it I’m sure he’d just tell me I was forgetting to turn it off when I leave for class. I wasn’t forgetting. I turn off everything when I leave for school.

I tried to talk to my dad about it, but he was too busy “with work” to discuss anything. It wasn’t just the work, though. There was something he wasn’t telling me, something that was pulling him away from me. The more I thought about it the more I think it started right when the hall light began to stay on. Was he thinking of mom as well? Did he hope she would be there waiting for us both at the light?

This went on for 3 weeks, every night that light would be on. At the end of the third week, I told my Dad I had to speak with him, something was wrong. Before I could say anything he wanted to get something off his chest first.

“Nate... I know it’s been tough for us without your mother and not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. But I think it’s time we both start seeing what else the world has to

offer.” He tried to keep up a strong front. Our days would pass normal enough but every so often he’d grow cold and distant as if a hollow breeze withered the life inside of him.

I took a seat next to him in the living room. “Dad, it’s fine. I know she’s not coming back. I think about her too. It’s not just her I think about but the things she used to do. Have you noticed how the hall-” He politely put a hand up to cut me off so he could finish what he needed to say. “I love your mother, I always will. The truth is, though, I’ve met someone.”

My father had dated before. Nothing long term but the relationships seemed pleasant enough. They kept themselves from me and I kept myself from them. I couldn’t stand the thought of another woman entering the space my mother occupied. Not the space in the house. The space in my head. I hadn’t come to terms with her being gone and I wanted to hold onto everything. The good and the bad. I wanted to see her aglow in the hall one more time, watching over me so I know I can sleep like an infant. She would keep me safe, she would protect me.

My father, practical as always, moved on much quicker.

I said, “Sure, and?””

“I’d like you to meet her. Her name is Tamara, she’s a pharmacist. I think you’d get along.”

I wasn’t ready for that. I knew I could not say no. My father deserved love as much as anyone, who am I to decide otherwise? Life is to be lived and I am not going to stop my father from doing so.

“Sure, I can do that. So has she been staying over already or...?”

He nodded, a smile coming to his face with the knowledge he could try and make something special with Tamara. He could try to bury the last scrap of my mother. “Yeah, for a bit now.” There we go. “She works a swing shift so she’s been letting herself out after you left for class. She’s a wonderful woman, I can’t wait for you to meet each other.”

It made me happy to know he was trying to find a new life. I worried it might diminish what mom meant but she wasn’t here anymore and my father was. “Dad, I’m happy for you. I really am. Honestly, I’m glad you brought it up. That hall light has been on when I get home from class for the past three weeks and I was starting to think I was going crazy, but I guess she’s just been leaving it on.”

My dad looked at me, confusion in his eyes. “Nate, she’s only started staying here this week.”

Greg Guiliano currently resides in North Carolina. Before that he was producing, writing, and performing shows around the Chicago area with several different theatre companies. His background is in writing for the stage but writing for the page is just the latest challenge.

Patience

by Shannon Connor Winward

“Do you see anything yet?”

Robert shook his head. He had so little strength left. With a “tch”, Elsie climbed into bed beside her twin and laid her chin upon his shoulder. She laced their fingers together and squinted into the shadowy corners of the room, certain this time she would see something new. But all remained as it had been.

Glancing down, Elsie thought she saw a flicker in his sunken eyes. “Now?” Robert only shrugged.

But surely death was close – the pauses between his breaths grew longer every time. The blue color had spread from his feet all the way to his chest. There must be some apparition hovering nearby – god, or angels, their parents who had passed or some wandering spirit, even the Grim Reaper himself, come to finally rid her brother of the pain of his disease, to take him away from her on some grand new adventure.

Elsie was so jealous, she could hardly stand it.

“How ‘bout now?”

“Nothing,” Robert whispered. “Nothing at all.” Then he turned his face into his pillow, and he died.

“Well that’s- that’s no fun, Robert.” said Elsie.

She almost cried. She felt grief bubbling up inside her, trying to fall out, so she almost squeezed her eyes tight. But instead, Elsie looked one last time around the room.

It started at his head; a shimmer, like sunset on a puddle. It worked its way down his body to his toes and then broke free. It began to float towards the ceiling – another moment and it would be gone.

Wait, thought Elsie. “Me too,” she said, grabbing hold of her brother’s not-ankle.

She felt a – POP! – then the floor, the room, the building fell away.

A great roar filled her not-ears. The world spun, colors harsh like fists buffeting her noteyes. The only thing not strange was her brother’s foot in her hand. She saw Robert flying, gazing upward, no more pain, no fear. Elsie let out a whoop of joy.

Then it stopped. The noisy colors, the happy rush, the feel of her brother there with her, as he had always been – all gone.

Heavy, falling, Elsie tumbled to the feet of an angel in a circle of light, beyond which Elsie knew was all the adventure she could ever dream. She wanted nothing more than to go there, always there, but the angel said, “Not you. Not yet,” pointed an angry finger, and made her turn away.

Suddenly Elsie was home again, in the sick room, alone. On the bed, the bodies of two children, blank faces looking out at nothing at all.

Time moved differently after that. She had thought the wasting days of sickness were long, but in the ages between when Robert left and when people came to take their bodies, Elsie went mad with boredom a thousand times.

But eventually, she began to learn. “Patience,” the angel said. As the room emptied, and the building rotted away around her, Elsie sat down to wait.

Writing by Shannon Connor Winward has appeared or is forthcoming in Pseudopod, Gargoyle, Pedestal Magazine, Star*Line, Strange Horizons, Literary Mama and Stupefying Stories, among others. Her fiction placed in the semi-finals of the Writers of the Future Contest, and as a runner-up for an Emerging Artist Fellowship in Literature by the Delaware Division of the Arts in 2014 and 2015. Shannon's poetry chapbook, Undoing Winter (Finishing Line Press, 2014) is nominated for an Elgin Award.

The Choice

by Belinda Draper

“You’re dead, Mister Hunt.”

The voice echoed through my head like a gunshot. Like the gunshot that brought me here. Or was it the bullet still ricocheting through the remnants of my brain?

“Dead?”

The darkness parted to reveal a figure, presumably the owner of the voice. It held something in its hands that I couldn’t identify.

“Dead.”

It nodded without moving. Roadkill, it whispered in my head. Detritus. Rot and decay and discarded waste.

“Who are you?”

The bullet stopped bouncing, giving way to laughter. Harsh, guttural, dirt-filled laughter that made me clench my teeth and tighten my sphincter.

“I am the Death Demon. I bring with me a choice.”

A choice between what? Was that thought my own? Was there enough of my brain left to form thoughts?

“What are my options?”

This time, the laughter caused more than my sphincter to clench. Every cell in my body shrank from the phlegm-coated gibbering that exploded through my skull.

“Your options? Oh no. It’s much easier than that.”

I clutched my head as my knees gave way and I squinted up at the Demon. The warm remnants of my pulped brain slid out my ears and over my fingers.

“Easy?”

The word was more thought than sound as my hands struggled to hold the cacophony in.

Or was it out?

It stepped forward and smiled as it reached towards me, and I saw at last what it held.

“Easy for me. You see, I make the choice.”

My sphincter gave up.

B. L. Draper lives in northern Australia where she teaches children about our world by day and writes about other worlds by night. She has stories published by Gone Lawn, The Future Fire and Ember, and hopes one day to complete her novel before she’s too senile to enjoy it. Online she can be found at bldraper.com

The Creepy Campground

by Christoper Iacono

After slipping his feet into his flip-flops and sneaking out of his parents’ tent, Andrew started searching for his missing Silver Blaze figure in the campground. His parents had told him before bedtime that they would look for the figure in the morning, but he couldn’t sleep without it, so he began strolling along a dirt road he and his father had travelled earlier in the day. Along the way, he spotted a man standing under a lamppost.

The incandescent light washed his tall, lean figure while he was smoking a cigarette. He didn’t say anything but kept his eyes on the boy.

Avoiding his gaze, Andrew continued along the dirt road and then entered a path through the woods where he thought he had lost the figure. His father had told him the path led to one of the smaller lakes, which, according to legend, was inhabited by a monster. His father also said that any disturbance of the lake’s surface, even one that caused only a minor ripple, would wake the monster from its slumber. When they saw the lake, Andrew was not impressed. It looked just like a regular old lake.

At night, though, the heavy darkness trailed him like a ghostly predator. Low tree branches were getting in his way while mosquitoes buzzed around his face. The tiny lights behind him made him feel like the campground was miles away, so he decided to go back.

On the way, he noticed that some of the lights from the campground were flickering. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust, but when they did, they made out the shape of a man covered in shadows. After a few more steps, the bluish-white moonlight outlined this man’s features. It was the smoker he had just walked by.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “What do we have here?”

Andrew gulped.

“You know you’re trespassing, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, mister. I’m going home now.” But the smoker shuffled over to cut the boy off.

Andrew’s heart started to quiver. “Please, mister,” he said before trying to circle the smoker again.

“Oh no, you’ve been a bad boy, and bad boys deserve to get punished,” the smoker

sneered before reaching for Andrew’s arm.

Andrew screamed and ran toward the lake. “Help! Help! Help!” After a few feet, though, he realized no one could hear him. Still, he continued yelling for help, even though his cries were getting tangled in the surrounding thickets. The path was starting to narrow, and the stretched tree branches were now starting to scratch his arms.

Finally, he made it out and onto a grassy shore, but the lake was now blocking his path.

Behind him, the smoker was inching closer. Under the pale light, his pupils turned blacker and deeper than the sky above, while his malicious smirk stretched his face and sharpened his chin. “Hey, son, the monster’s coming to get you,” he said.

Andrew bounded toward the woods, but the smoker grabbed the sleeve of his pajamas and yanked him into his chest. He placed his hand over Andrew’s mouth and wrapped his other arm around him. The boy tried to stomp on his captor’s feet and wriggle out of his arms, but the smoker didn’t budge. Then Andrew strained his throat to emit a shriek.

Nothing. Just a faint shrill. Finally, his father’s words about the lake monster flashed in his mind. He slid his toes slightly out of one of his flip-flops and kicked it toward the lake.

Only the front edge of the flip-flop touched the surface, but it caused a small ripple before a faint howl could be heard in the distance.

The smoker froze. He was still holding Andrew tight, but the wicked smile left his face.

The howl came again, this time louder, and the ground began to shake. In the center of the lake, large bubbles were rising, and then a large face — larger than Andrew, and maybe even larger than the smoker — broke through the surface.

The monster!

After water drizzled down the scales that covered its face, a pair of yellow eyes opened. It roared once again, its large sharp teeth gleaming. The smoker’s arms suddenly loosened and slipped away from Andrew’s chest, although at first he was too stunned by the sight to move. The large arm and leg muscles that shimmered under the moonlight simply awed him. But when the beast was lumbering closer to him, he pushed the smoker’s arms away and bolted. As he was racing out of the woods, he heard a wail that rattled his bones until it faded into silence.

When he finally made back to the campground, he stopped running and caught his breath. After returning to his parents’ tent, he climbed over his snoring father and crawled inside his sleeping bag. He never found his figure, but knowing that there was no longer anything creepy in the campground helped him go to sleep.

Christopher Iacono lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts. Besides writing fiction and poetry, he has written book reviews for Three Percent and the Neglected Books Page. When he is not writing, he copyedits and proofreads marketing materials.

The Gazing Glass

by Christina Dalcher

On my fourteenth Halloween, Mother shows me how to peel an apple in a single strip.

"Now toss it over your shoulder," she says. "And the letter it forms will be the first initial of your husband."

I do as I am told. "May I look?"

"Yes, but only you. And don't you dare tell me what you see."

When I turn, the apple peel on the floor lies curled in a perfect 'D,' the kind I practiced in the fourth grade. Down, loop, over, up, loop again. David? I like the sound of David. I can't think of one that starts with 'De,' so I keep going. Dillon? It sounds too pompous. Donald?

I hope not. Dudley? Oh, I really hope not. A David or a Daniel would be nice.

Mother interrupts my David and Daniel thoughts. "Time for the mirror."

As she guides me into place, I decide I prefer Daniel.

"Do you know what to do?" she asks.

I've known what to do for five years, ever since Gran explained what the women in our family call The Gift. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for Mother to unveil the glass so I can see what my Daniel will look like.

"When you hear me slide the lock, you may open your eyes," she says.

I hear her step softly away and open the closet door. The rustle of her skirt brushes against the frame, the bolt clicks into place, and I know she is gone.

Gran's words echo in my ears. What you see when you scry is for you alone.

"Was he handsome, Gran? When you scried?" I asked her last night.

"Handsome as the day is long, girl."

After tonight, Gran will no longer call me 'girl.'

My eyes flutter open, and the glass I've never seen—and will never see again—stands in front of me. It is my turn to gaze.

On Halloween, inside this glass, my future husband's face will pass. I repeat this five times, as I was told.

A shape forms next to my reflection, fuzzy at first.

Daniel. Daniel. Daniel.

He becomes clearer as I gaze. Eyes appear, black like the night. A wide smile follows. I wait.

Something is wrong.

Daniel's eyes are too dark, too deep. His smile is not a smile, but a maniac's grin. A hollow cavity marks the middle of his face, where his nose should be.

I am not allowed to scream.

Gran told me of this possibility. "It seldom happens, girl. But if you should gaze and find the skull, that will mean the end of you."

I collect the apple peel 'D' from the floor behind me, pausing to admire its calligraphic precision, and knock five times on the closet door.

It is a full minute before I hear the bolt slide back.

"Ready?" Mother asks. This is her only question.

"Ready," I say and follow her down the stairs where Gran waits by the fire.

Gran gives me a warm smile, warm as the flames in the hearth, and takes my hand. "Now you know your destiny, woman."

I kiss her and Mother goodnight. From my small room, I hear them whisper speculations.

Gran thinks he will be an 'A,' like her own husband. Mother says he will be tall and slim, with grey eyes. They wonder when he will come for me. They wonder how many days and months and years I will have to wait.

A rush of October night blows through the window, and my suitor takes my hand.

Christina Dalcher is a linguist and novelist. She doesn't own a mobile phone; she hasn't watched television since Seinfeld aired. Home is the land of Styron, crabs, and barbecue. Her short bits can be found in The Molotov Cocktail, Saturday Night Reader, Pidgeonholes, Bethlehem Writers Roundtable, and Platform for Prose. Alec Shane of Writers House represents Christina's long work.

The Ghosts of Graveyard Passed

by Bryan Grafton

“Come on let’s go trick or treating. It’s only about a half mile walk to town Randy.”

“It’s getting dark and I don’t want to walk. Maybe your mom can take us.”

“What’s the matter Randy you scared to walk by the cemetery. You’re twelve years old for God sakes.”

“No, but you know what they say.”

“No, I don’t. Just what do ‘they’ say?”

“Well you know, that the ghost of Tommy Tuttle haunts the graveyard on Halloween the anniversary of his murder.”

“He wasn’t murdered Randy. He accidently fell into the augur blowing silage into the silo and was mutilated to death when his brother found him.”

“They say his twin brother Timmy pushed him in since they were fighting as usual and Tommy was drunk and being mean to him.”

“Right and ‘some’ say that it was actually Tommy that killed Timmy since no one could really tell those two apart. Bottom line, you’re chicken.” Doug put his hands in his armpits and started flapping his arms up and down while making chicken sounds.

“Brawk, brawk.”

“Okay enough already. Let’s go.”

The boys had to pass the cemetery and then go by the farmstead of Timmy Tuttle before they got to town. As they approached the cemetery Doug taunted Randy, “Look you see any ghosts Randy?”

“It’s pitch black out, no moon no stars. I can’t see anything.”

“Oooooo. Tommy was the evil twin. You know Tommy’s ghost will be out tonight seeking revenge. Scary boys and girls, Oooooo.”

“Just cut it out will you Doug. There’s no such thing as ghosts and even if there were, I wouldn’t be afraid of them anyway.”

“Then you’re not afraid to pull a Halloween trick on Mr. Tuttle are you.” Doug got no

response as they approached the Tuttle farm. “I dare you Randy, no I double dog dare you, to open the gate on the pen where Mr.Tuttle keeps his prize winning bull. All you have to do is just run over there. open the gate and run back. He can’t see you, the house sits back too far. It’s easy.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“Okay, I will. You can come with me unless you’re chicken.”

That was enough of a prod for Randy. The boys ran up to the gate. Doug opened it.

Randy kept watch. Not a word was spoken as they fled the scene of their prank. Out of breath farther down the road, they stopped and looked back. There through the blackness a faint white object, barely visible, floated about five or so feet above the ground, bobbing up and down. Neither boy spoke another word as they hurried on into town.

Long before the dreaded midnight hour approached the boys started their homeward journey. As they came to the cemetery Doug spoke up, “Let’s just cut through the cemetery and then through the hayfield on the other side to get home quicker rather than stay on the road. That is unless you’re afraid of the ghost of Tommy.”

As usual Randy caved to Doug’s taunting and the boys entered the cemetery. Halfway through Randy stopped dead in his tracks. “Look, look over there by where Tommy’s grave is. See that white spot moving up and down. What is it?”

“Jesus not again” shrieked Doug. “Just keep walking nice and slow to the fence, then crawl under it, and then run like hell."

The boys didn’t need any further incentive as the object started drifting toward them.

They scurried under the fence and didn’t look back until safe on the other side. There it was, the white object about the size of a basketball, floating back and forth parallel to the fence line, again five feet above the ground.

“It’s guarding its territory, the graveyard. That’s what ghosts do.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts Randy.”

“I don’t. That’s just what ‘they’ say ghosts do.”

Next morning Doug’s father woke him. “Get up son we’re going down to the cemetery and set up some small stones that were knocked over by some pranksters last night.”

When they got to the cemetery Mr. Tuttle was on his tractor with the end loader bucket attached to the front. They all got to work as he lowered the bucket, scooped up the

fallen stones and set them on their base. Doug and his father then wrestled them into place.

After the work was done Mr.Tuttle took Doug aside. “Did you see his ghost son?” Doug was silent. “The gate must have somehow got open last night to the pen where I keep Timmy, my black white-faced bull. Got him in this morning before he could do any further damage rubbing and scratching up against these stones and knocking them over.

Doug was nonplused. He stuttered, “You, you named your buh, buh, bull after yourself?”

“I didn’t say that now did I? Oh yeah, watch where you’re walking there’s some bull you know what around here.”

Bryan's stories appear in four recent Romance Magazine, Frontier Tales, and issues 5 & 6 of The Fable Online.

Violet

by Lynn Mundell

The woman found the baby in the meadow where violets grew all year round. Scurrying home, she guarded her like the feral cat minded her kittens. Daily she strapped the baby to her back. Nightly she locked the door and windows and then hung the silver charm on its ribbon at the foot of Violet’s cradle. One night the woman awoke to the wind blowing through the open door. The tabby under the kitchen table purred loudly, gnawing the velvet ribbon like a dead thing. Violet and the cradle were gone. In their place sat a cracked teacup; inside, a baby the size of the woman’s thumb. Furred like a mouse, covered with petals, baring its blackened teeth.

Lynn Mundell is co-editor of 100wordstory.org. Her writing has appeared most recently in Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Counterexample Poetics, and FlashFlood. "Violet" is one in a series of "scairytales." "Blue" was published this year in Number Eleven.

What They Left Behind

by Damien B. Donnelly

I’d been back a month, the city of light they called it, Paris and all it’s lovers, everyone hand in hand, lips locked like they were lynching the breath from each other and there I was, alone. It had become my city of shadows, dark, devious and doomed.

Why did I come back here, of all places, the one city that had ripped us apart, literally? It had found us, cracked us open and drained the beat of life that bound us, blood seeping onto sidewalks, terrorising terraces, drowning the river in crimson currents, from your veins to its bed.

I was back in our home, on our balcony, waiting, wondering if I’d catch sight of you. I lost nights chain smoking, drinking, hurting all over again. Everything inside still aching from that night, even the dust felt your absence and clung to your chair, your brushes, your side of the bed, your box of sharp, sadistic tricks.

It was the end of October when it happened when the shadows gradually began to find their shape in the darker tones of the season. Breath hung in the crisp air when you exhaled, like an entity all of its own. It was almost midnight on that most hallowed of all eves, I was wearing your scarf, wrapped tightly around my neck. I had the feeling it was your hands wrapped around me, almost to the point of choking me, when I saw the shadow approaching. An icy shiver cut through my veins like I’d swallowed blades, large and hole. I froze to the spot. I recognised the shadow as it came closer and as the form found its shape, I knew it to be true. I held my breath as it came to the gate, flipped the latch and entered the garden of dying flowers beneath the spell of the moon. Then the door downstairs groaned opened followed by footsteps creaking their way up along those old steps, the ones you always demanded me to fix, if only that had been your only demand. Keys rattled next in the hallway until one twisted in the slot of my door, which used to be our door. The lock clicked just as I stepped in from the balcony. My pulse was beating so hard it felt like the veins of my body were being strangled.

The form stepped into the dimly lit room and I recognised the scent immediately as tears burnt into my face. I opened my mouth to scream but your hand caressed my cheek, wiped my tears before you put your lips against mine and I was captive once agin in your dangerous embrace, after so many years of being without, being lost, being broken, regretting it all. I thought I was dead. I didn’t think I could move until you whispered to

me to hold you and, without knowing it, without controlling them, my arms wrapped themselves around you and held us together so tightly that I thought we’d break.

This is death, I told myself, I exist now among the dead and yet I could smell you, feel you, your cold lips, that putrid perfume I’d always hated and your body bolt against mine.

I didn’t know how it could be, how you were standing in front of me, touching me, your tongue piercing its way into my mouth. And then the doorbell rang and shook the silence of the entire moment, the entire building and maybe even the entire world that had flipped on its axis in a matter of moments, in the encounter of a kiss, a kiss from death itself.

“Those kids,” I said as if everything was normal, unsure of what else to say, “it’s Halloween… you always hated when they found their way into the building, begging for candy.”

You turned slowly and then somehow you were instantly out of my grip, standing by the door, turning the handle, but I hadn’t even seen you move. You stood in silence regarding the children outside, dressed as ghouls, monsters and one peculiar child hidden from head to toe in a princess costume, perfectly in character except for the gaping wound on her neck. She held a knife in her tiny hand, as real and as sharp as a butchers pride and joy.

“You shouldn’t be playing with this, my sweet, you’ll get blood all over your costume,” you said to her before you took the knife from her tiny fingers and instantly you were back again, standing before me, looking right inside me.

The children were still standing in the doorway as you raised the blade, cutting through the thin breath of air that separated us as if that was all that separated us.

“I don’t understand,” I said to you, knowing time had deserted me, realising I’d wasted my freedom, watching the shadows, terrified of what would one day arise from them, “you were dead,” I said, “I saw you bleed out in front of me.”

“I know, my love and I still am. The dead don’t come back to life, not after their lover has killed them, they just come back for what they left behind,” she said as she slashed the blade across my neck, just below her scarf and the warm blood gushed from the inside out. She grabbed me and pulled me close to her as the life drained from my body, bringing her lips down on my neck and savagely sucked what was left from my veins.

“You killed me because you discovered my desire for slicing up life so I’ve returned to show you that very desire, first hand,” she whispered to my fading life-force.

“Happy Halloween,� were the last words I heard her utter as I dropped to the floor while she took the hands of the children who watched from the shadow of the doorway and lead them off with a vengefully demonic laugh.

Damien B. Donnelly is a 40 year old Irish man who just returned to live in Paris after a 16 year absence having been captivated by the city at 22 and haunted by it ever since. He left his City of Inspiration for love in London, followed work in Amsterdam (pattern maker for various fashion brands by trade) but he's back where he's supposed to be.

He has been writing since before he could crawl, poetry mostly, but branching out into short stories over the last few years, recently being one of the Short Story winners in the www.originalwriting.ie competition and will be featured in their Anthology being published in Dublin, in November of this year. He is currently working on the 2nd draft of his first fictional novel and always working on my online blog www.deuxiemepeau.wordpress.com featuring poetry, prose and photographs and occasional random thoughts.

Flip Side Forever

by Madeline McEwen Kyle Canford slowed his pace as he approached the house on the corner with the dog and a straw stubbled lawn at the end of the block. Bile burned the back of his throat. On impulse, he grabbed a bottle from the gutter, hurled it at the front window and ran. He heard the glass shatter but didn't look back as he tore along the sidewalk and turned into his own street.

Slowing his pace to a nonchalant walk, he spotted Mr. Moley and heard the scream of his chainsaw slaughtering the bushy overgrowth in his yard.

"Hey, Kyle," Mr. Moley said switching off his chainsaw, standing knee-deep in myrtle branches in the house next door to Kyle's.

"Home alone again? Your Mom still out banging the books?"

Mr. Moley said the same thing every day, his version of a joke because Mom was a bookkeeper although she always called herself an accountant.

"Where's Bandit today," Mr. Moley said.

"He's inside." Hadn't he heard about Kyle's labrador? That was strange. The old guy knew everybody's business. Head of the neighborhood watch and some gossiped he was a vigilante. Their street sat at the edge of an upscale division of San Jose. Huge mansions rose over the other side of Union Street with electric, noiseless gates and motion-sensor security lights.

"Didn't Mom tell you what happened?"

Mr. Moley leaned on the rickety fence tipping the brim of his battered straw hat.

Kyle, small for his age and smothered in angry acne didn't want to explain, but Mr. Moley waited in silent patience.

"Yesterday, we were walking home past that house on the corner," Kyle said, "me and Bandit, when some crazy dog burst out the door, growling and frothing, and roared over the dirt. Got Bandit by the throat. Tearing at his face. Ripping his back. Clawing his throat.

Blood everywhere."

"Geez, that's too bad. Is he going to be okay? What time was this?"

"8.30 in the morning. I got him home. He could hardly walk. Mom took him to the Animal

Hospital. He was there all day. They shaved him. Put drainage shunts in the wounds all over his body. He looks terrible. Total mess."

"I'm sorry son. He was a beautiful dog. Get him a rabies shot? I bet you were terrified. I would've been. Nothing scarier than a mad dog."

Kyle drew his sleeve across his nose and fought back the tears. Exhaustion swept over him. He'd spent the night on the sofa next to Bandit listening to his labored breathing, praying he'd make it through the night, plotting his revenge on that evil, monster hound.

"I'll keep an eye out," Mr. Moley said, "make sure you and your mom are okay with Bandit out of action."

"I can take care of my mom by myself."

"Sure you can. Your dad would be proud. Tough being the man of the house at your age.

At least those joy-riders have stopped their games on Union Street."

"Did you stop them?"

"Not on my own. We work as a team, us, the neighborhood watch, and the police. Did you report the incident with Bandit?"

"Mom called Animal Control, but they said it's only a civil matter if the owner won't pay the veterinarian bills."

"That's the way of the world I'm afraid. A dog's considered property by law. Like your dad always said, there's a flip side to everything. Be different if he'd attacked a human."

"I wish it had been me instead of Bandit, then they'd destroy it, put it down, stop it from hurting anyone else."

Mr. Moley laid a rough hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Which house did you say?"

"On the corner, Union and Berry. The one with the fire hydrant outside."

#

In the corner house at Union and Berry, Mrs. Maud Bennet kneeled on the carpet and picked up the shards of glass with her arthritic fingers. She dropped them onto an old sheet of newspaper with an article about two con men disguised as women scamming their way into local homes. What a terrible world. No one was safe anymore, not even the elderly. No longer "big, black and beautiful," Maud was frail and bent, with an ashen

complexion.

Behind her, Molly, the mongrel she'd acquired, taken pity on, lay sprawled across the hearth. She hadn't moved when the bottle smashed the window. Her massive chest rose and fell, bulbous paws encrusted with traces of dried blood, slack-jawed, yellowed fanged, and a lolling tongue. So much for protection. Molly wasn't much of a companion either with her aloof disposition and matted coat.

Perhaps it was a mistake to take in stray, but Molly's arrival--she looked like a Molly-seemed like a gift at the time. Her emaciated frame and docile demeanor spoke to the cruelty of the modern life. Maud had found Molly in the side yard with a bloody gash on her throat and flecks of spittle around her gaping maw of a mouth. Next to her by the fence, lay a headless raccoon: the mangled body eviscerated, pale organs trailing across the dirt.

Nursing Molly back to health had been rewarding and given Maud new purpose. She looked for "Lost Dog," posters, but saw none over the following months. If the world didn't want her, then Maud certainly did.

Maud had stopped taking the dog to the groomers when Sharon, her daughter stole the car keys, declaring Maud unsafe to drive any longer.

"I'm doing you a favor," Sharon had said. "I've got to take them before you kill someone."

Maud had protested, but Sharon never listened and always knew best: judge, jury and executioner although she was only a legal secretary in an ambulance-chasing law firm on the outskirts of town.

The television news burbled in the background making Maud's existence seem less solitary. Sharon had grabbed the remote.

"Why is it always on so loud? Why don't you wear your hearing aids? Why are you watching the news? It's always bad. I don't want you worrying about those con artists.

They're only targeting wealthy seniors. Make sure you use the security chain. Don't open the door to strangers and don't let anybody in."

"But how will I get about?" Maud pleaded seeing the tow truck arrive on the driveway, and Sharon preparing to leave.

"I'll drive you on the weekends. Besides you never go out voluntarily. You're like a hermit these days."

"What about groceries?"

"I'll order them for you online," Sharon said, "and pay the delivery charge."

Maud felt underwhelmed with Sharon's dutiful generosity motivated by moral obligation rather than love. Why wouldn't she just stay away and leave Maud in peace? Every visit meant loss. Last year Sharon took away all Maud's papers for safekeeping. Next she removed the staircase and replaced it with an electric chair-lift, then the bathtub. Sharon had the land-line disconnected and gave Maud a cell phone with tiny buttons and a charger. She never used it. Each time, Sharon severed a small nub of Maud's autonomy; death sliced wafer-thin. And now, the final chop, butchering her independence by taking the car.

#

Kyle cleared away a plastic wrapped Halloween costume and other junk on the couch to check his text messages. Thirteen had piled up. He ignored the ones from Mom and focused on the three from Daryl: "Meat at 11," and "Savin ur play," and "U comin?" Kyle wanted to go and didn't at the same time. The conflict bounced round his brain. Daryl was a shrimp, the new guy, and that's why he wanted Kyle there too, someone lower on the food chain. Halloween loomed, tomorrow night when they'd make their big move on the neighborhood. Daryl promised good money. The plan to put the true meaning back into "trick or treat" both frightened and excited Kyle. Could he do it? Out every night all week practicing, but when would Darryl explain the details? Exhaustion swept over Kyle.

He rolled onto the floor and lay next to Bandit resting his head next to the dog's soft underbelly.

The screen door slammed as Mom rushed into the house with an armful of groceries.

"Sorry, I'm late. I got caught by Mr. Moley." She dumped her purse and keys on the counter and thumped a saucepan on the stove. "Pasta okay?"

"Again?" Kyle had eaten macaroni and cheese three nights running, but he didn't have the energy to complain.

Mom wrapped her arms around her body, fingernails digging into her flesh, "You're right.

Let's have pizza. We deserve a treat after this week. I thought we'd never reach Friday."

She stepped over to the sofa, mussed Kyle's hair and planted a kiss on his forehead, then returned to the kitchenette.

"Do you want to find a movie?" she said opening a packet of dog treats. She pushed a pill,

an antibiotic, into the soft treat and then cooed as the battle with Bandit commenced. He hated the pills.

Kyle took the remote and surfed through the channels. He paused on a news story.

Police sketches of two suspects impersonating gas company workers. Calling on homeowners in San Jose about a gas leak, one at the front and one gaining entry at the back of the property. The fake uniform, cap, clipboard, toolbox and ID guaranteed entry to the front guy, that and pretending to be a female employee. Nobody ever suspected women.

On the flip side, what kind of man could pass for a realistic woman up close? Some people were so dumb.

#

Was that why Maud rescued the dog, to annoy Sharon? A small act of rebellion in the face of impossible odds. Sharon was unstoppable, relentless in her quest for control.

Sharon had hated the dog on sight.

"What do you want with that smelly old mongrel?"

"He'll keep me safe now your father's passed."

Sharon's disapproval etched deep frown lines between her brows.

"Like a guard dog," Maud continued.

"I seriously doubt that dog could guard anything. She's too old."

Was that true? Maud had shared Sharon's doubts at the time. The dog's presence and loud bark had deterred the strangers for a few days. For a while, Maud thought Molly had scared her tormenters away, but then they began again: throwing litter and cigarette butts in the yard, driving past her house at high speeds in the middle of the night, tires squealing, music blaring, empty beer bottles left on her doorstep so she'd know how close they were, how easily they could murder her without a soul knowing.

Maud had played her trump card, saying, "I feel less lonely with Molly around."

"Whatever," Sharon conceded with the weary sigh of a martyr, and Maud knew she had won. A minor victory. She felt more powerful than she had for months. However, he feeling faded fast.

Maud looked at the two bulky pumpkins on the kitchen counter, inconvenient and

dominating the space. Too heavy to move, their shadows creeping across the unlit room on the darkening evening. Where had they come from? She didn't remember buying them. Had Sharon brought them?

Turning her back on them, Maud hobbled to her chair in front of the television to continue her solitary vigil. Anything to delay going to bed. The nights were the worst for Maud, sleepless in the dark, listening to the once familiar sounds of her neighborhood which had taken on a disturbing tone. What was the point of living this way? Afraid of the shadows, fearful of the unknown, and terrified of the strangers' torments. Why single her out? What had she ever done to them? When would they stop their hateful campaign?

Alone in the double bed, Maud tried not to listen to the overgrown branches tapping morse code against the window pane. She sank beneath her comforter and prayed for daylight or death.

#

"I wish you hadn't told Mr. Moley about the attack," Mom said the treat still in her open palm, teasing and tempting Bandit, who steadfastly refused to open his mouth. "You know he'll only make trouble."

"I hope he does. I hope he goes there with his chainsaw."

"Kyle! It's not the dog's fault. Surely you must see that? Don't condemn the dumb dog, blame the owner."

"Huh?" "It's the owner's responsibility to make sure their dog is safe. You have to be able to handle a big dog. Train them. Keep them locked up if you can't control them. I know it's terrible what happened to Bandit, but what if it had been a child?"

"Sure. Maybe Mr. Moley can slaughter the owner instead."

"Kyle! What is wrong with you? Hasn't there been enough carnage in this family?" She paused and folded her arms across her narrow chest. "I'm sorry. I'm tired, not explaining this properly. Just think of the flip side." She rested her other hand on his shoulder. "This could have been so much worse. Could have been you." She winced wearing a tight smile. "Have you met the owner, Molly's owner?"

"That brute's called Molly? It's a she? A fucking bitch?"

"Language, Kyle! But yes, Molly belongs to Mrs. Bennet. She's living all alone in that filthy disgusting house. I wouldn't keep an animal in that place, let alone a human being. The smell was overpowering."

"You've been there? Met her?"

"Of course. I took the veteranarian's bill over there this morning. I didn't go inside, but I could smell the stench from the doorstep. How she can live with an untrained animal in the house, I can't imagine. Anyway, she said she'd pay. No problem. Real apologetic, but it's obvious she's not coping. That dog's too much for her. I'm surprised she could hear the doorbell with all that barking. She came to the front door with a kitchen knife in her hand. She looked terrified and so--what's the word--wizened. She must be a hundred years old. Sorry, I shouldn't have said any of that out loud." She sighed and threw her head back, white, thin, neck exposed. "God, I miss your Dad." Kyle did too, especially this week. Almost a year. They'd agree to visit the cemetery together on the 31st, lay flowers on Dad's grave then eat at Dad's favorite diner. No fuss.

No sentimental mourning. No other family members. Just the two of them. Kyle knew what would happen next. The same as what happened with all the other morbid rituals: daily at first, then every Saturday night, moving to monthly when they did the same things over and over again. Afterward back home, Mom sobbed alone in the bedroom she'd shared with Dad for nearly twenty years. Did she think Kyle couldn't hear, or didn't she care if he did?

Sometimes when Kyle had been much younger, he'd longed for a brother or sister to play with. Would a sibling have made things better now, shift attention away from him, share the burden too and deflect Mom's searing neediness?

#

The fridge was empty, and Maud shut the door. Molly followed her steps, big eyes trained on her mistress, watching every movement and gesture. Was she hungry too? Maud opened a can of dog food and emptied half into a bowl, leaving the can on the counter for tomorrow. The light was failing so it must be evening. Why hadn't she remember to go grocery shopping today? She switched on the television and read the time in the bottom corner of the news broadcast. They still hadn't caught those con artists. Maud wrote down the public contact number for anyone having information leading to an

arrest. Reward money would be welcome. She'd noticed the gas-meter reader visit earlier in the day, from the safety of her front room window. If anyone called again now, she'd know they were up to no good. She heard a crash in the kitchen.

Hurrying, she found Molly standing guard over the empty can of dog food crushed by her jaws, punctured by her teeth, licking her face with defiance, challenging Maud to chastise her.

Maud hesitated in the doorway, took a step back whispering, "you are a bad girl."

Molly growled. Then, whipping around, Molly launched herself at the kitchen sink, paws scrabbling to gain purchase. She hauled herself up onto the counter. One of the pumpkins rolled and fell to the floor, splitting open with a sharp cracking sound, spilling soft guts and hard seeds through a deep fissure. Molly lunged at the window; teeth bared, nose to the pane. The barking frenzy continued for what must have been a few minutes but seemed like hours.

When Molly stopped, she dropped to the tile floor skidding on the pumpkin pulp, scattering seeds, her tail wagging.

"What was it?" Maud asked. "Somebody there? An intruder?"

Molly sat at Maud's feet, head on one side as if she understood every word.

"I wish I had a treat to give you." Maud put her hand on the dog's head between her silky ears, feeling the radiating warmth. "What a good girl you are."

#

Crawling into bed fully clothed beside Bandit, Kyle laid his head on the pillow and his hand on a small smooth bald patch of the dog's shoulder avoiding the shunts. Bandit sighed but otherwise didn't stir at three in the morning. Daryl had given Kyle a lot to think about. There were so many flaws in the trick or treat plan, but Daryl wouldn't listen to reason. As Mom would say, Daryl wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. He didn't have a plan, but a suicide mission. How did he think they'd pull it off?

Tempted to check the law on his laptop, Kyle resisted and thought through the sequence of events on his own. Stealing a different car every night was reckless, but Daryl's scheme didn't have a shred of logic. The plan to have five guys wandering around the neighborhood wearing hoodies and stockinette masks was childish. They would stick out

like nuns at a nudist colony, even on Halloween. Yes, the streets would be full of kids in costume, but they'd be little kids and young teens, not tall young men like Daryl and his gang. Moreover, those kids would be accompanied by their parents on the look-out for dangers and threats of any kind.

Even assuming temporary mass blindness, Kyle knew that wielding a gun, even a toy gun, was illegal. Dad had explained it to him. This was back when Mr. Moley wanted the Neighborhood Watch members to carry guns after a spate of burglaries when Kyle was nine-years-old before the fancy new houses appeared.

"You see," Dad had said, "if you have a gun, even a fake gun, other people won't know that. You'd be guilty of assault. It's in the California Penal Code, and it's against the law."

Kyle tried explaining this to Daryl, but he ignored him and continued to lay out the rest of the plan as if Kyle hadn't spoken. Daryl, the designated gun-in-chief, was supposed to knock on the door of a home chosen by Jake, the plan's mastermind, or rather the plan's pea brained leader. Then when the home-owner arrived, Daryl should draw his gun and yell, "Trick or treat." Jake said the victim would hand over cash or other valuables, and Daryl should throw the gun in the house and run away yelling, "tricked you." Jake would be waiting nearby in the get-away car with the license plates blanked.

"See," Daryl had said. "Perfect. Jake's thought of everything. After we do a few more houses, we'll share the booty. I get 10%. You get 5% cos you're just the look-out and the newbie. Jake'll drop you at your location for each house and pick you up after if you do a good job."

"What if don't do a good job? Is Jake just going to leave me there?"

"Sure. If you mess up. And you're not gonna get your share."

The plan was so lame Kyle didn't know where to start.

"What if someone comes?" Kyle didn't like how all the instructions came through Daryl never directly from Jake. "How I supposed to warn anyone when I'm on foot and you're in the car?"

"Text."

"Great," Kyle said sarcastic like his dad. "So Jake and his cronies stay safe and wait in the stolen car while you to do the crime."

"Crimes? You need to get a life. You're not better than road kill."

How come Kyle could see it but Daryl talked like he wore blinders? It dawned on Kyle that

Daryl didn't have the brains to figure it out. "The cops will be looking for the car."

"Jake says they'll be too busy since it's Halloween. The cops expect a lot of pranks."

"What if the home-owner doesn't cooperate? What if they get their own gun and shoot your head off? Ever thought of that?"

"Ain't gonna happen."

"Why? Why would you think anyone would just hand their stuff over to you?"

"Because I've got the gun. They have to. That's why it's called, 'deadly force,' dummy."

Kyle remembered watching cop shows with Dad. "I always thought these shows were pure fiction," Dad had said, "but so many of them are based on true life incidents. Then again, on the flip side, never forget, it's the dummies who always get caught."

Kyle rolled onto his side in bed. How had he ever gotten himself so tied up in knots with Daryl? Because it was fun? Because there was nothing better to do? Because he longed to escape from here, from this home where nothing felt right any more? He wanted to be seven again, a kid with no worries and no responsibilities. Why had everything turned bad, hopeless, and pointless? Kyle chewed a hangnail and tasted blood. No matter how he'd reached this point, from now on he'd steer clear of Daryl and the 5% daydream of nothing.

#

At nearly three in the morning, the joy riders disappeared from Maud's street. Maybe someone had complained. Perhaps the police came and arrested them. Molly scrabbled at the door from the hall, her growls had reduced to whimpers since Maud had gone to bed some six hours early. She wouldn't let Molly inside the bedroom. Something about the dog made her fearful at night, especially after she attacked that other dog without warning. You did hear stories about faithful pets turning on their owners. Although, Molly would never do that.

Childhood fears crept into the vacant silence. Quiet sounds amplified in her mind. What was moving and where? The smell of rose water and acrid diapers seeped into the chilly air around her. Could there be something lurking under the bed? She longed for her own mother's touch, someone to stroke her hair, wipe away the tears and promise to keep

her safe from the malevolent spirits. Pushing away the past and slowing her gulping breaths, Maud filled her mind the present.

Maud missed the weekly visits from the cleaners. Were they cleaners? Perhaps they were from Social Services. Who knew? Whoever they were, she missed the human contact.

Someone to chat with and pass the time of day. It wouldn't do to talk to your pet. Only crazy old ladies did that. Maybe it was different if you talked to a dog rather than a cat, or lots of cats, overrun with cats. Why hadn't she bought a nice little cat instead of a great big dog? A cat wouldn't eat you if you died, but a dog would if it were hungry enough.

Slipping her legs from the covers, her feet hovered above the rug for a moment. When had she last fed Molly? Maud couldn't remember eating either. Which was more likely?

Eaten alive by monsters under the bed, or mauled to death by a starving hound? She hobbled across the room and turned the key in the lock.

#

"Where are you going?" Kyle said at lunch time the next day when he hauled himself out of bed and saw Mom heading for the door.

"Work."

"On a Saturday?"

"Company Board meeting, then a late lunch. I'll try not to eat too much so I won't spoil our special dinner tonight."

"I thought you'd be staying home with me," he said hesitantly, "since it's today, Dad's anniversary."

"I know, Honey." She wrapped her arms around him pulling him close into her rough shirt stiff with the toxic stew of chemical smells from new clothes. "I need to keep busy. This is the perfect excuse. You could come too, but you might be bored. Why don't you see if you can hang out with your new friend? Daryl, isn't it?"

"Daryl's busy."

"Busy?" She grinned. "You guys don't know the meaning of the word."

"What are you wearing?"

"Costume." She made a quick twirl. "Like it? We're all dressing in uniform for the day, and

I didn't want to go as a nurse, so I chose mail carrier." She tapped the brim of the postal cap. "This way I'm almost gender neutral." She smiled. The fake one she used when putting on a brave face, but Kyle had seen it too often. He wasn't fooled for a second.

He hugged her, "Go have fun, Mom. I'll be fine. Someone's gotta look after Bandit."

"Great. Maybe you could take him out later. Walk round the block. Got to face his fears, after all, we're not moving from this place. He's got to learn to be comfortable in his home environment, like getting back on a horse after a fall."

#

Pulling back the drapes, Maud watched a woman come into the yard without a sound and lift the concrete plate with a long black tool of some kind. She wore some strange piece of plastic in her ear, and Maud saw her lips move as if talking to someone, having a conversation. There was no sign of a van, an official vehicle. Had she come to read the water meter? Would she ring the bell? Hadn't Maud heard something about burglars? No, she watched it on the television when Sharon visited. Maud's hand slipped to the pocket of her apron where she hid the kitchen knife. Could she do it, defend herself? She had nothing worth stealing. Would that make the robber more angry for wasting valuable time? No, a woman wouldn't use violence against another. Then she remembered the police sketches of the two men, men impersonating women.

Maud peered at the woman leaning over, head down, her face in shadow from the brim of her cap. Could that be a man? A man with evil on his mind. A violent thug determined to rob her blind, or worse. Maud imagined herself on the floor, a bloom of red seeping into the carpet, her body not found for days, or weeks.

Molly howled.

Maud flinched.

Molly charged at the door throwing her entire weight at it, barking in frustrated fury and baying for blood. The figure in the yard shoved the concrete slab back in place and hurried away. Maud watched her enter the yard next door. Would they be the next victims? Guilt washed over her. Had she escaped danger only to pass it on to some other innocent soul?

In the kitchen, Maud leaned against the counter by the remaining pumpkin to catch her

breath and regain her composure. What if the woman came back? What would Maud do then? She must grow a backbone, assert herself, defend herself. She felt the cool blade of the knife in her apron pocket clink against the stone counter. She reached inside and slipped her fingers around the hilt. How much force would it take to stop an intruder?

How hard would it be? Reversing her grip, she put her thumb on the top of the hilt like a dagger, reached high above her head and then plunged the blade into the pumpkin.

#

Kyle flicked through the pages of Mom's desk diary to see what time she'd be home.

She'd taken all the over-time they offered lately in her hell-bent attempt to keep busy, never home. On the flip side, she hadn't noticed his late nights, so no nagging and no worries. She'd written their Saturday dinner date at the diner in red ink. Above, written in pencil, he read, "Board Meeting, wear fancy uniform." No finish time. He shut the diary as Bandit limped into the kitchenette, licked his hand and whimpered.

Dropping to his knees, Kyle slipped his arms around Bandit avoiding the drainage shunts.

He smelled rank, but a bath was a long way off when his wounds were still raw.

"Where's your darned plastic cone, boy?" It stopped Bandit licking his cuts and ripping out the stitches, and then poor dog hated it. "Pulled it off again?" He went in search of the cone and clicked the link on an incoming text from Daryl; a video of the previous mission, drag-racing along Union. Kyle hadn't been in the car, relegated to look-out at the end of Union Street with an unobstructed view of any oncoming dangers. When they timed it right, they usually got three clear races before the cops arrived.

The video jerked and bounced with an intermittent soundtrack from inside the car. The guys whooping and shouting. A flash of Jake's manic face. The footage focused on the street through the dirty windshield, careening and swerving, tires shrieking, but not above the sound of the police sirens.

Daryl had kept the camera running as they hurtled past a fire hydrant onto someone's yard, car doors opening, breathy gasps and retreating footsteps scrabbling over gravel.

Then black. Twenty-three seconds of pure adrenaline. Kyle realized he had been holding his breath as if he'd been in the car with them.

A close call. They were lucky to have escaped. Maybe they wouldn't be so lucky next time.

He could almost hear his father say, "on the flip side, it's never too late to change your

mind."

The graphic sequence, the emotional rush, made him think of Dad. How had he felt when that truck hit him? A drunken driver on the wrong side of the road, no lights, no time to stop, plowing into Dad. Did he see it coming? Did he hold his breath too, slamming on the brakes? What flashed through his mind? Did he have time to think at all? Was he ever afraid? Fear or excitement? Why were they so similar? Kyle shuddered, shook off the thought, and hunted for the phone recharger.

After plugging in the phone, Kyle returned to Bandit, who lay full length across the family room rug. Kyle didn't want to think about Dad now; there'd be time enough later with Mom. He turned on the Playstation and dove into the game, racking up his scores. He moved to the next level, trashing enemies and winning trophies, anything to escape from his memories.

Food flashed into Kyle's mind some hours later. He sat in the dark room lit by the plasma screen. He smiled. Although he'd wasted the whole afternoon, on the flip side time had skipped by in a few seconds.

Bandit, encased in his cone, licked his dry mouth. Kyle filled the dog's bowl with water.

"Come on, Bandit. You need to drink." Kyle's phone buzzed--fully charged--and he noticed it was after five. Mom would be home soon. He was still wearing his pajamas.

Taking a cursory shower, he dressed in less than five minutes, grabbed a flashlight and caught Bandit's collar with the long leash.

"We're only going once round the block," he said sliding a key in the back of his phone case. He opened the front door and hesitated meeting a blast of cold air.

The street was slick after rain, lights reflecting in the wet, water running through storm drains. Too early for many Trick-or-Treaters, too late to back out from his plans or at least some of his plans. First Mom, the cemetery, and then the diner. What about later when she was asleep? What about Daryl? What about Jake, the guys, and the professional tricksters? What was he going to say to them? How could he get out of the commitment?

Text Daryl with an excuse? Turn the phone off? Hide it in Mom's purse so he couldn't change his mind?

"Wait!" he ordered Bandit with more conviction that he felt. He slammed the door and dashed into Mom's room. Her clothes were laid out on the bed for their evening together: the favorite dress with the too-low neckline, the high heeled shoes which had made her an inch taller than Dad, and a beaded clutch bag, just big enough for a

checkbook. He slipped his phone inside and closed the clasp.

#

Maud checked the calendar for the twenty-third time that day. Halloween approached, and Maud made preparations. She didn't want to be caught out again. Gone were the days when she answered the door and handed out candy to little kids in fancy costumes.

Instead, she locked the doors and windows, drew the drapes, turned off all the lights, and retreated to the spare bedroom at the back of the house. From there, she could still hear if anyone walked up the gravel path to the front door. She prayed no one would. Outside, the deserted yard was enclosed by an eight-foot fence; the gate blocked off by a wheelbarrow, the bottom rusted out, and the tire slashed long ago.

This year she planned to be more cautious. Although Halloween fell on a Saturday, it wasn't unknown for kids to start early and call on the Friday, ringing the bell, hammering on the door, and peeking in through the windows. She missed the little kids, but the big kids, teenagers and older, drunken adults and other opportunists, made her extra wary.

The annual event had turned into an excuse for celebrations by everybody. Did any of them know the origin of the feast? Maud did. How the ancient Celts believed the dead returned as ghosts, demons and evil creatures on the eve of 31st. Was she as superstitious as them? Why were such fears so deep-seated, burrowed into her DNA? The pagan custom of offering food to placate malevolent spirits had melded with the early Christian All Souls' Day. Each generation had adapted the feast day until now, hundreds of years later, thrill-seeking youths preyed on her, skulking in the shadows, waiting for the chance to kill all joy.

She'd never approved of firearms in the house, but sometimes she felt a twinge of regret.

How much easier to defend herself with a gun? Would she have the strength, let alone the will-power to stab an assailant? Her doubts were bolstered by Molly's presence.

Hadn't she proved her worth scaring off that big white lab? When Maud opened the front door that morning, she never expected Molly to take off, launch herself from the house like a rock from a catapult. She'd almost knocked Maud down; the force of those muscles, tense tendons and corded ligaments, ninety pounds of solid defense.

The blood had surprised Maud too. She saw it puddle in the dirt as the boy and his dog ran away, crossed the road and disappeared from view before Maud had even caught her

breath. She only realized the seriousness later, when a woman called round, the boy's mother.

"I'm Karen Canford," she had said. "Your dog attacked mine this morning."

"I'm so sorry," Maud had said. "She's never done anything like this before."

"My son is traumatized, and I've taken Bandit to the veterinarian. He said if your dog had attacked a smaller dog, it would be dead. Have you any idea how dangerous your dog is?"

"I can't think why she behaved like that. She's always so gentle, my companion you know, so loving." That seemed to placate Mrs. Canford, and her expression softened.

"There's over $600 in medical bills. I can't afford it. I'm a widow."

"I am too. Let me take care of the expenses for you," Maud said. "It's the least I can do. I assure you it will never happen again."

"Okay, but I have to report your dog to Animal Services."

"Molly," Maud said hoping to placate her by using Molly's name, making her pet real to the other woman, praying for pity and a stay of execution. "I understand. I'll phone them too, and explain."

After Mrs. Canford had left, Maud shut the door and leaned against it collecting her thoughts. Was that only this morning? Was it yesterday? Perhaps it was last week and all the trouble was over? Then again, how would she ever find the money? How long would Mrs. Canford wait? What would she do if the money never came? Debating whether to tell Sharon, Maud knew she couldn't give her daughter more ammunition against her.

Nor would she phone Animal Services. What would she say? Maud couldn't phone anyone even if she wanted to--that tiny cell phone was impossible.

#

Kyle walked slowly matching Bandit's pace towards Union Street one block from home.

Mom said Bandit needed to face his fears, but Kyle had his own to conquer too. He felt the same shuddering terror recalling Mrs. Bennet's house, Molly tearing across the dirt, unstoppable, and worst of all, how he froze. He took a gulp of air and watched steam cloud from his mouth on a long exhale. On the flip side, he'd managed to leave the safety of the house, he had a purpose and a mission, not hiding away in his bedroom.

Turning into Union, he spotted Mom's Fiat traveling north towards him. Damn, he'd left it too late to do his chores as promised. The afternoon had evaporated. Bandit looked like a pincushion with drainage shunts littering his body. No hurrying him.

Unexpectedly, Bandit pulled on the leash, his tail wagging urging Kyle forward. The Fiat pulled in at the curb and parked in front of the fire hydrant at Mrs. Bennet's house. Why was Mom going there? Had she guessed his plan to visit the scene and slip past as fast as he could? Was she there to offer moral support? He felt compelled to walk taller and prove he'd got back on the bike.

Mom locked the car, although he wouldn't have recognized her in that dumb uniform.

She'd change when they got home, freshen up before the cemetery, wear that dress, Dad's favorite. Did she remember the flowers? Were they on the back seat of the car?

Kyle watched her march along the gravel path and ring the bell. He flinched as Molly barked, a raucous, blood-thinning bellow, even though they were half a block away. Mom took one step back from the front door, standing at a polite distance on the path. He raised a hand and waved at her, but she faced the door, arms folded.

"Hey, Mom," he shouted.

She turned a blank face toward him, smiled, and waved in recognition.

Kyle crossed the traffic-free Berry Way dragging Bandit, who now refused to go any closer to the fire-hydrant house. Kyle hoped the dog had forgotten, wouldn't balk at the prospect of another encounter with Molly. He was wrong. The incessant barking seemed to shake the small house. Bandit stalled, then pulled in reverse, tail between his legs, snout down, submissive and beat. Who could blame him?

"Wait for me back home," Mom yelled standing her ground.

Bandit whined and tangled the leash around Kyle's knees. He should have brought the shorter leash. What an idiot? What was Mom doing? What did she hope to achieve?

The door opened, and Kyle gasped, heart pounding. He didn't know what he expected, but there was no sign of the dog. Instead, he saw the frightened face of a tiny woman.

Was that Mrs. Bennet? She lunged forward, arm drawn back above her head before she brought it down in one smooth movement striking Mom. No one moved. Bandit whimpered in the otherwise silent street. Mom crumpled to the ground.

Kyle dropped the leash and ran to her, skidding across the dirt onto his knees by her side. Her mouth fell open, eyes searching, hands scrabbling to find the hilt of the knife, not touching the unseen blade buried deep in her chest. Don't pull it out, whatever you

do, don't make it worse.

Taking her bloody hands, Kyle drew her hands away palm to palm, enclosing them with his in a duet of prayer. This couldn't be happening, not real. Everything would be okay, if only he stayed calm. Think, think fast.

He glanced at the demented old woman, an apparition of bewilderment on the doorstep.

"Help!" he shouted, but Mrs. Bennet looked through him with a glazed expression, turned her back and shut the door without a word.

"Mom!" What to say? What to do? He felt for his phone. No, it was at home in the clutch.

"Stay still, Mom." Don't move. Don't bleed. Keep breathing.

"No." Mom grasped his hand. He squeezed back, tears falling. Why was this happening?

Grabbing her purse, he dumped it out on the dirt. He rifled through the contents. Found her phone. Battery dead.

"I'll get help," he said, "wait here. I'll be quick."

"No," she gripped his hand with force, clipped nails digging into his flesh. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her mouth tight, breathing labored. "Wait with me until it's over."

Madeline McEwen is an ex-pat from the UK, bi-focaled and technically challenged.

She and her Significant Other manage their four offspring, one major and three minors, two autistic, two neurotypical, plus a time-share with Alzheimer’s. You can find here here: http://www.madelinemcewen.com

Retribution

by Davina Coulthard Rachel clutched onto the strap of her rucksack so tight in anticipation that it was like a protection spell from the three girls stood staring at her. She walked past them with her eyes downcast. Without turning to look back, she hastened to escape from the embarrassment of the verbal abuse she expected to receive from them. Rachel felt like she was being chased and the sound of her heartbeat filled her ears. She sensed someone was behind her and she did not have the strength to flee from the situation.

The dread froze her then suddenly an external force tugged her rucksack, pulling her to the ground. Rachel glanced around to see everybody staring at her and then her cheeks began to burn up.

“Are you just going to sit there?” shouted the culprit; Hannah, who stood giggling with her friends.

A tall figure appeared in front of Rachel, extending a helping hand. As she pulled herself up, she realized it was Hannah’s boyfriend, Steven.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Rachel wondered why he would care; then she began to realize this could be the part of another plan to humiliate her; she glared at Steven skeptically as she walked away.

The basement in Rachel’s house was the place where she could hide away and sob her heart out, it was quiet and dark, but this did not trouble her. The girls at school bothered her the most. Every day was the same and Rachel knew that she could not carry on living this way. It was not like she had a friend to turn to, but she had to resolve this matter in a way she thought was possible. Her thoughts were interrupted by the basement door opening and she was surprised to see Steven walk through.

“Hi, your mum said you would be down here,” he said glancing around slightly nervous, “Don’t you find basements creepy?” he asked.

“Only if you look at them that way,” Rachel paused. “What do you want?”

“I dumped Hannah,” Steven said.

“Why?” asked Rachel.

“I got sick of her ways, all she talked about was ways she could get to you,” said Steven.

“She will never let it go and it was nothing to do with me!” Rachel said.

“Let what go?” asked Steven.

Rachel felt Steven staring at her, waiting for her response; she looked directly at him with

a hardened disdained expression, Steven glanced back worryingly. Rachel was not going to trust him just because he dumped Hannah. She did not know if this was all a big part of Hannah’s game. This was like being at pre-school and Rachel was not going to expect Hannah to be a reasonable sixteen-year-old.

“Why don’t we try and forget about them and maybe throw a Halloween party this weekend?” Steven suggested.

“What here?” said Rachel.

“Your house is perfect and big,” said Steven.

“I will have to discuss it with my mum, but yeah sure,” said Rachel.

“Great, I’ll invite the people and you arrange the setting,” said Steven “Sounds fair,” said Rachel.

Rachel smiled with optimism, finally something was looking up. This was a perfect opportunity to regain some confidence and control in her life. Everything was going to be mapped out perfectly and it was going to be a night she will enjoy.

Rachel was quiet pleased with herself after applying the finishing touches to the Halloween decorations. The living room was filled with brightly lit pumpkins, skeletons hung from the ceiling ensnared with large cobwebs, black spiders scattered the walls and gothic candles clustered around the room creating a gloomy effect. She was captivated by the large group of people turning up at her house, people she did not even know personally, or recognize due to the costumes they were wearing. Steven appeared out of the midst with a proud smile on his face.

“Hi Dracula,” Rachel laughed.

“It’s Count Dracula,” said Steven.

“Who are all these people? And who is the goat head? Rachel asked.

“Friends from school,” Steven paused. “Where is your costume?”

“I didn’t think that I would need one until now,” said Rachel.

Her emotions went from sheer jubilation to distress within five minutes. All she could think about was the humiliation that Hannah caused her in front of everyone and wondered who was here, that saw. As the night went on Rachel could not take her eyes off the other eyes in the room, a feeling of dread crept up from the pit of her stomach.

Suddenly her wandering eyes froze when she saw Hannah walking towards her. Rachel felt like someone had knocked the breath out of her and she began to shake like a leaf.

Not more humiliation, please! She thought.

Hannah’s eyes glared at Rachel’s, forming an intense gaze. The infuriation on Hannah’s face made Rachel squirm shamefully.

“Well, well, well, having fun are we?” asked Hannah.

“What are you doing here? You weren’t invited,” shouted Steven.

Hannah’s hand closed into a fist as she moved towards Steven. His words shattered her heart; He defied all her expectations of him. Her mouth quivered and releasing her pent up emotions she let go with a right uppercut to his chin that sent him flying onto the buffet table.

“Traitor!” snapped Hannah.

As Rachel rushed to assist Steven her distress increased when she got that feeling of deja vu. People surrounding the scene gawking at what they would class as entertainment.

Only instead of been watched by school students, there were witches, demons and zombies videoing it all on their mobile phones.

Rachel’s face contorted into an image of rage. “I think you have caused enough trouble, Hannah,” she said.

“I think you have, Daddy’s girl! I’m sure your new boyfriend would love to know about how much of a wonderful father you have,” said Hannah.

“Don’t Hannah,” said Rachel.

“What? Don’t tell them about how your father sacked my mum because she wouldn’t sleep with him?” said Hannah.

Rachel was mortified, frozen to the spot and she could not believe this came out in front of everyone. Her head began to spin as she knew she would be reminded of this for the remainder of her school years.

“It has nothing to do with me,” she said.

“It’s your father,” shouted Hannah.

Hannah’s triumph was disrupted when she felt Steven firmly grasp onto her wrist. His blood was boiling and his breathing became very shallow as he heaved her down into the basement, he abruptly began to push her in a gradual motion until her back was against the wall. He was forcing himself not to get violent by taking a deep breath.

“You can’t help yourself can you Hannah, you have to push people,” said Steven.

“I don’t like basements, let me go,” said Hannah.

“You’re going to apologize to Rachel, then you are going to leave us alone.”

“I don’t think so, my family suffered because of her dad,” Hannah paused. “Why do you care, you said she was a loser.”

Their dispute was suddenly ceased when the creaky basement door slammed shut.

Steven stared in suspicion as he noticed an ominous movement, slowly creeping down the steps. Hannah’s terror filled eyes widened and stood out against her fake tanned skin

when a sacrificial goat figure appeared out of the shadow and calmly ambled down the steps.

“What are you doing down here?” asked Steven. The goat continued to stride towards Steven and Hannah whilst manifesting a shovel from behind its back. Hannah’s shriek of terror echoed across the basement and Steven froze, staring credulously.

“What do you want meat head?” shouted Steven. The goat halted its steps to pull the light cord, leaving nothing but blackness around them and the sound of tympanic footsteps.

Hannah was sweating in her own fear; her breathing heightened, stinging the back of her throat as she shuffled around to find an escape, Steven’s hands groped around the air in search of the light cord.

“I don’t want to die,” Hannah whimpered, crawling around the floor, not knowing which direction to go.

“Let us go!” said Steven.

Suddenly the creaking door opening was heard again but no sound of it being shut. As they looked towards the light more figures emerged. Hannah could not contain her screams and still found herself screaming after the light had been turned back on. Her eyes scanned the room warily until she saw Steven cowering in the corner of the basement. They were surrounded by several of the guests gaping at them, with the goat stood in front.

“What’s going on?” screamed Hannah.

The crowd of guest began to laugh animatedly, at the same time Rachel removed the goat mask from her face. Hannah glared in humiliation.

“I thought I was going to die,” she said.

“That’s how you make me feel every day at school,” said Rachel.

“I could have you done for this!” said Hannah.

“You can try,” paused Rachel. “But when this gets on YouTube, all that’s going to be seen is you punching Steven and him dragging you away.

Hannah darted away, shoving ignorantly passed everyone. Steven stood astounded by Rachel’s performance, smiling and even laughing through his confusion of his disbelief.

He was not quite sure how to react to what was going on in front of him. His smile and laughter parted in realization of what did in fact happen.

“I can understand this was for Hannah’s benefit, so I will let you off for scaring me too,” said Steven.

“Eh thank you,” said Rachel.

“So can I ask you out again sometime? Asked Steven.

“I don’t think so,” said Rachel.

“Why not?” asked Steven.

“Because you called me a loser…,” said Rachel as she walked over to the crowd before turning around to Steven, “…and a meat head.”

“Thank you for lending me your mask,” Rachel said to a young man stood in the crowd.

“Anytime,” he said.

Davina Louise Coulthard is a thirty five year old married mother of four and has lived in Yorkshire, England her whole life. She has always had an interest in writing since secondary school in which at the time wanted to become a newspaper journalist. She has a busy life looking after her family but made herself time to start a writers course a year and a half ago with the writers bureau. She has written short stories with the support of her tutor and has published one on line in spring. She continues to keep studying and writing and hopes to write a successful fiction novel, as it is her ambition.

The Lone Ranger Rides Again

by Michael Coolen A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty “Hi-Yo, Silver” The Lone Ranger rides again!

Whenever I, D.M. Werther, watch a marathon of The Lone Ranger TV show, I begin to relive my previous life as a 19th century Texas Ranger. Not only do I commence to talkin’ like Will Rogers, I find myself hankerin’ for day-old campfire coffee with a side of flapjacks and the sound of my horse Dusty nickerin’ just out of sight. Before I know it, my mind and heart have returned “to those thrilling days of yesteryear” when men were men, horses were horses, women were damsels, and life could be cut tragically short by an infected pimple.

The Lone Ranger’s skills with ridin’, ropin’, and shootin’ were unmatched. I’m sure I wasn’t the only boy in a white hat with mask and cap guns who watched in astounded amazement as the Lone Ranger not only shoot a gun out of a bad man’s hand, but did it without causing him to bleed! Equally impressive was that his gun seemed to have an endless supply of silver bullets, which must have cost a whole passel of money.

Everybody loved and remembered Clayton Moore as the Lone Ranger (except for one year when John Hart took over during a contract dispute, leaving some of us young fans a touch worried and confused). Jay Silverheels will never be surpassed as Tonto, certainly not by the normally wonderful Johnny Depp who played Tonto like a Comanche version of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.

Of course, the Lone Ranger and I sloped (a word Louis L’Amour used to describe ridin’ quiet like) around different territories in the Southwest. And, although Silver was a swift horse, I get confusified when I hear he was “a fiery horse with the speed of light.” The speed of light must have been significantly different where the Lone Ranger rode the range. Maybe that cloud of dust contributed to the speed. ‘Course, Silver is described as a fiery horse, and there’s no question that if he ran at the speed of light, he would have caught fire. ‘Course, so would have The Lone Ranger.

In a pinch, my horse Dusty could barely break 25 miles per hour, although once, when we were being chased by a bunch of heavily armed and pissed-off Comanches, Dusty managed to race 60 miles to Lubbock in about half an hour, which means he coulda left a

cheetah in the dust. Admittedly, Dusty didn’t like Comanches much. They smelled… dangerous like.

After all those episodes playing on the television in our living room, I wasn’t surprised that, in the fall of 1990, my brilliant 4-year old son Tristan decided to go trick-or-treating as the Lone Ranger. Tristan always had a sense of flair when it came to clothing. His outfit included a gun belt, a pair of rubber boots in case of rain, and some yellow sunglasses on his belt in the unlikely event of a solar flare while he moseyed around the neighboring farms and ranches. He also wore a black vest with Marshall’s badge prominently displayed, shiny handcuffs, a blue faux-cowboy necktie, and a “you talkin’ to me?” attitude.

When I noted that his holsters were empty, Tris replied, “I don’t plan to arrest anybody.

I’m gonna put candy in the holsters so I can quick draw a snack whenever I want one.”I would be carryin’ a pair of virgin Naugahyde saddlebags over my left shoulder to carry the loot.

He was a little disappointed that I couldn’t provide him with a horse. I decided not to explain to him that I already had too much horseshit in my life as it was. But I managed to find a pair of old half coconut shells I could slap together to imitate the sound of horse hooves. Clippity, cloppity, clippity, clop, clop. Just like in the movies.

As I looked at my excited young Ke-mo-sa-be (which means “trusted scout” in case you’ve ever wondered), I felt there was still something missing, and it wasn’t Tonto. I’d be ridin’ along with him as the perfect companion whose name in Spanish means “stupid.”

Everything seemed great except …then it struck me. Ke-mo-sa-beneeded music to go trick-or-treating, and I was just the Tonto to wrangle it up and corral it.

Choosing a soundtrack was a no-brainer. It had to be the overture to the opera William Tell composed by Gioachino Rossini and which was used as the soundtrack for The Lone Ranger television show. That music is so popular and so deeply connected to the show that the only people who don’t recognize it are intellectuals.

William Tell was actually Rossini’s 39th and final opera. The original title of the opera was in French, but Guillaume Tell doesn’t sound like the kind of music a ranger could cotton to.

Actually, the music everyone knows comes from the Finale: March of the Swiss Soldiers, and the tune has been used in a variety of movies and cartoons, including Bugs Bunny’s Overtures to Disaster (1991). Again, this little detail about Swiss soldiers is not generally brought up in polite conversation. No respectable Texas Ranger would be caught dead wearin’ duds that looked so Vatican. Actually, they’d probably be found dead if they were

caught wearin’ ‘em. Five of them did end up dead when they made the mistake of ridin’ with General Custer that day.

Anyhow, The Lone Ranger and Tonto were ready to ride on that Halloween night in 1990.

I had attached a small cassette player to my bolo tie down the front of my John Wayne cowboy shirt, and donned my Stetson with the flashing Christmas lights headband. We stepped out of the house and do-si-doed on down the street to visit some neighbors. I started up the cassette immediately, and Rossini echoed around the neighborhood.

“Duh…duh duh duh…duh duhduhduhduhduhduhduhduh (etc.).” And while it played, my hands were free to tap the coconut shells. Clippity clippity clop clop clippity clop.

My wife came along, too, but she kind of hung back for some reason, maybe in order to warn us if we were about to be ambushed by a gang of back shooters.

When we got to a house, I would slope up Injun style and hide next the door behind some bushes. Then Tristan walked to the door to the sound of Swiss soldiers marchin’.

When the door opened, I started tapping the coconuts slowly and gently to suggest a nervous horse on their porch. Clop, clop…clip clop. I tried to whinny…just once…because it sounded more whiney than whinny. I sounded like an embarrassed quarter horse.

“Trick or Treat, pardner!” Tristan yelled. The “pardners” loved it so much that an extra pair of virgin Naugahyde saddlebags would have been a great idea to hold all the candy he received that night. We could have gone all night, perhaps to neighboring towns and even states, but it got late, cold, and rainy, and the Lone Ranger was getting sleepy despite the urging of Tonto to slope on down the road and get more loot. Tonto was particularly fond of Mounds bars.

After putting Tristan to bed that night, Tonto poured a beer and congratulated himself.

The Halloween Lone Ranger brought back a lot of fond memories of the television show, which was the highest rated television show at that time. Fifty-two times a year, The Lone Ranger got to demonstrate his skills in episodes with titles like “Ranger in Danger,” “Best Laid Plains,” and “Million Dollar Wallpaper.”

As I drank my beer, however, I began worrying what could possibly surpass the Lone Ranger as a Halloween character next year. It had to be someone as popular and well known to several generations of candy-givers. I picked up a TV Guide for inspiration, and the answer came like a Zap in the night. Before my eyes appeared a schedule of re-runs of Batman, starring Adam West as the Caped Crusader. Pow! Pow! Bam! Zap! A year later, Tristan ran with my idea, and he became the most heroic Bat Boy who ever

pedaled a Bat-Tricycle around the neighborhood. Although it was powered by human legs, the car did have a little trunk in which to store the candy. I recorded a piano version of the theme (a 12-bar blues by the incredible Neal Hefti) onto a cassette, and on Halloween evening nuhnuhnuhnuhnuhnuhnuhnuhwas welcomed by local endangered citizens as it resonated throughout the neighborhood. Bat Boy rushed from house to house, cape flaring out behind him, pausing only for a quick “Zap” or “Pow” as he tossed his candy into his Bat Sack.

The following year Tristan made his own decision of what to wear. He went as the Captain of the Federation Starship, Enterprise, complete with uniform, communicator, and hand phaser. I dressed up as one of the junior officers in red; you know, one of those no-name guys who always get killed on a mission. I was proud to serve my captain.

Getting music was the easy part, but I added a little magic to the process. Again hiding out in bushes beside the neighbors’ doors, I waited until they were just about open when I played the sound effect of a starship officer being beamed onto their porch. Tristan waved his arms around a little, like his body was reassembling before their very eyes.

After getting his candy, he’d ask them nicely to close the door so they wouldn’t get caught in the Transporter beam. As they closed the door they could hear him say “One to beam up, Scotty.”

We got a lot of good candy that night, with a larger than normal number of Mounds bars.

And it was kind of satisfying to know that we were travelling through the neighborhood faster than the speed of light through clouds of cosmic dust.

The following year Tristan went as the Grim Reaper, and I played the opening of Carmina Burana, which startled even a couple of people when they opened the door. At one point, a group of middle school kids from the next block came howling and cheering with delight at the music that they recognized from a lot of different movies and commercials, one of which starred Conan the Republican (as Governor Schwarzenegger called himself later).

Sadly, this was the final year of sound effects for Tristan. After that year, he was too “grown up” to have his Dad and Mom along.

Fortunately, my younger son Iain was now walkin’ and could experience the wonders of his father’s innovative trick-or-treating suggestions. That first year he went as a giant pumpkin, and I had special “spooky” sound effect music, complete with howls and screams that I played as he walked up to the door. Iain seemed to like it; sort of, maybe.

Although I thought I occasionally heard the sound of a young voice grumbling.

The next year Iain decided to go as pumpkin again because there was a lot of room in his costume for candy. However, I noticed that the grumbling was getting louder, and Iain was running ahead of me, sometimes finishing collecting candy before I was able to hide next to the door and play some sound effects.

The following year, I told him I had a great idea for him to dress up like the shark in Jaws.

“Just imagine how great it would be for you to walk towards the door to the sound of ‘Duh Dum. Duh Dum. Duh duhduhduhduhduhduh,” as I sung that great John Williams theme from the movie.

Iain looked at me with that slit-eye look the cartoon character Coyote often sported when he suspected the Road Runner had something up his wing.

“If you do that, Dad,” he said, “I’ll wear a paper bag over my face.”

To be honest, Iain has frequently to do that when we’re together on many occasions even into his 20s. He has a fairly low embarrassment threshold.

It sometimes worries me that the boys won’t have any children of their own, concerned that I might resurrect the Halloween music tradition with the grandkids. But, I also suspect that as much as they said they hated what I did, they will come up with their own fanciful traditions for trick or treating, perhaps even with music. Maybe I will be able to sneak along behind them with a paper bag over my head to see what they do. My wife will probably hang back a bit, though, probably because two people are more noticeable than one.

Michael Coolen is a pianist, composer, actor, performance artist, storyteller, and writer living in Corvallis, Oregon. His written works have been published in Ethnomusicology, Western Folklore, Oregon Humanities, 50wordstories Online, The Gold Man Review, Best Travel Stories: Volume 11, Crooked/Shift, Clementine Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. He has also published music for various ensembles, as well as soundtracks, plays, experimental films, and documentaries, including the award winning documentary, Freedom on the Fences, about Polish poster art after WW II. His compositions have been performed around the world, including at Carnegie Hall, the New England Conservatory of Music, MoMA, and the Christie Gallery in New York. An African marimba group he formed performed around the country, even opening for The Grateful Dead in Oakland for New Year's Eve. A CD of their music reached #14 on the Billboard Crossover List in 1991.

Thank you for reading our Halloween-themed issue. We hope that you enjoyed every bit of it. Until next time!

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