Halloween 2007
Winner - Scott Bell
"The Hearth"
Editor's Note - The prologue was approved by the Editor prior to admission
“We came to the house, and it is an old house, full of great chimneys where wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon the hearth, and grim portraits…lower distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls.”
-Charles Dickens
Halloween used to be my favorite holiday until three years ago.
I knew it was a Bombay the moment the headlights of my F150 flashed across its dense patent-leather fur. It made no attempt to avoid impact. Only after my front tire crushed its body did I recall the intense copper eyes staring defiantly from the street. Parlor-panthers they’re called, too rare to buy in the States.
It would have been easy enough to toss it in the back with the rest of the dead but I’d spent all day fighting with my ex and currently my head was somewhere between Jupiter and a pint of Wild Turkey.
I made sure there weren’t any animal rights activists following me, (discretion is the better part…) clocked in and proceeded to haul the dozen or so black trash bags of assorted dead pets and vet clinic casualties into the open bay near the incinerator or “hearth” as the owner of the Faithful Friends Animal Crematorium lovingly called it.
Throw another dog on the barbie.
I hoisted the iron door into the raised position, turning to avoid a direct blast of heat to my face.
One by one, I opened the bags and positioned each of the not-so-freshly-dead animals on the 3’ x 16’ hearth bed. Normally we get your regular pet store rejects: rabbits, house cats, an occasional parakeet, but an accident at a nearby boarding stable left me the joyous task of having to “rearrange” a horse’s anatomy so it would fit through the hearth door.
I cut the power to the saws-all, job mostly done, the horse in four large sections splayed across the floor.
Covered in decaying equestrian fluids, my ceremonial cigarette was interrupted as a sound like tearing burlap issued from beneath a body bag I’d casually tossed over a beagle laying on the transfer table. Although hidden from view, the beagles head seemed to bulge spasmodically, alternately rising and falling into itself. Fucking hacks at the animal shelter must have botched the gas job.
Trembling, I flung back the bag with the business end of the saw blade. The beagles face had been torn back in a serrated smile by an ebony Bombay taking its meal of him.
“No fricken’ way, I killed you.”
My cigarette hit the floor as I recoiled from the table. (Neither the congealing stallion nor the smaller dead extended any reassurance).
Molten copper eyes stared deliberately through me as the cat tore another chunk of flesh from the smiling beagle’s horribly widening grin.
Not fully recovered from my initial revulsion, I attempted to shove the cat away. Needle sharp teeth drove deep into the meat of my palm between thumb and forefinger as it simultaneously lunged at me.
I lurched back reflexively as its claws sank into my chest sending me backwards over the quarter horse.
The impact of my head dislodged the aging spring mechanism sending the 200 lb door down through flesh and bone, severing both my legs. The incinerator went from pilot to full burn (hell of a coincidence) as the cat and I struggled, fusing into a twisted burning mass of bone and flesh.
When I was discovered the next day, there was enough booze in my remaining limbs to write it off as an alcohol related “event”, avoiding OSHA scrutiny.
Epilogue:
Being dead is not all roses and Reilly, but it’s better than fightin’ with your ex.
Every year on the run up to All Hallows Eve, the Bombay and I celebrate by sacrificing her to unsuspecting drivers; either she jumps willingly into their headlights (when in the mood) or I throw her, (when not).
From events and parties, strangers return to loved ones recounting stories of a rare black cat they had casually left to die in the road that later returned, copper eyes blazing, leaving them to ponder the horrific improbability; One cat, both dead and alive, on a small town Halloween night. Hell of a coincidence.
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Honable Mention
Olivia Wolf
"The Pippy Costume"
Halloween used to be my favorite holiday. I used to dress up as
Pippy Longstocking with the red hair and braids sticking out to the
sides. I had a red pleated dress that I wore and long tall stockings
and black shoes. I carried around a cream pie. I flirted with all the
old men who brought their daughters by.
In fact, my Pippy Longstocking act became quite famous as time went
on. Children and their parents, often from miles away, would make a
sojourn to my house to see me entertain. I'd often sing a song, click
my heels together, and give out large candies. I'd smile and bend over
and serve and banana cream pie. My makeup was perfect and my hair
truly stick straight. I always heard the girls telling their mothers
that they wanted to be just like me; they were sick of wearing sheets
and carrying a rake.
However, one year when a kid came near, I heard another one shriek
and say there was a snake by my ear. It wasn't true; the kid was
diabetic, the snake a hallucination, a result of insulin dependence. I
rushed over and held his limp body near until the sirens roared down
the street and the paramedics were there. The friend of the boy told
me his parents' number and I called it but they weren't home. I
couldn't watch him go alone so I took off my costume and climbed
inside; it was a very stressful ambulance ride.
We arrived at the hospital and they took him in; I sat in the waiting
room and dreamed of gin. How could a holiday I began to wonder be
centered around snacks that made people larger? Snacks so full of
sugar they could induce a coma? Snacks so full of chemicals that most
surely caused cancer? How could I condone a holiday that no longer had
a spiritual basis? One that helped candy companies sell large and
larger cases?
I sat there in that hospital and waited for the parents. I sat there
for hours and meditated on my thoughtlessness. No longer would I go
with the status quo; I would vote to ban sugar and costumes and
Halloween celebrations. I would organize large and meaningful pumpkin
protests. I would tell parents and all the world that sugar was
dangerous and costumes stupid, that someone being hurt or wounded made
it not worthwhile.
The boy of whom I spoke made it out okay. They brought him out of the
coma and he only had to stay one more day. I went to check on him and
he recognized my face. He asked me if I would be Pippy for him then
and I said ok. I put on the hairpiece and the dress and the shoes; I
pretended that I was Pippy and danced around and smiled and sang, but
in my heart of hearts, I was no longer the same.
I retired the costume after that and whenever my niece comes to stay
I always tell her that I don't like Halloween, that I think it's a
truly stupid holiday.