All Hallow's Eve By Carroll Ann Susco

My brain is fragile, craves quiet, stillness.

Time is liquid. The present moment moves but always stays present.

It smells like fall now. Take cover. Winter is coming. At the first touch of the sun, it hits me, God’s immensity. It eats up the carpet, my coffee mug, my pupils.

This night is All Hallows Eve, where we sit, the plastic ghouls and I, on the porch, waiting for the new day—All Saints Day--to usher in some form of peace and love. We understand that the night does not hide our sins nor cause us to stop repeating them. It’s as though the night was here to give us a reprieve from the yawning chasm of guilt and broken bones that we leave scattered. On All Hallows Eve, the ghouls and I sit up all night waiting for the daylight, after evil has run amuck, asking for candy and soaping car windows. Don’t lie to us and tell us it’s all hogwash, the good, the bad, and the filthy. We have it on good authority that virgins are sacrificed on this night. We stand watch so that such a thing doesn’t happen here or ever again. And just because plastic ghouls and I sit together, it doesn’t mean our hair will lick the fire. We wait for the nip of the sun radiating out and soaking our irises in brilliant color. We wait together, like always. We chomp at the bit. We burn our retina at daybreak and together we go forward, blind as a bat, toward something already seen, toward something holy and good that will come from this life, even if it is only for a moment.

ABOUT:

Carroll Ann Susco has a chapbook, Bean Spiller, about hearing voices and almost 50 publications, including ones in The Sun Magazine and Asylum Magazine. Her LinkedIn page has a list and links, including a free link to Bean Spiller.

EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: Boulet Brothers --- All Hallows' Eve