Barker

The pumpkins on the Tree were not mere pumpkins. Each had a face sliced in it. Each face was different. Every eye was a stranger eye. Every nose was a weirder nose. Every mouth smiled hideously in some new way. —Ray Bradbury.

All the beasts, tales, nightmares are out this night; all the demons, statues, idols, gods. This night of all nights because...What else? It’s Halloween. The liminal space, the time of wavering reality in which the dead may rise, if only for a short time and if only in symbol, if only in our minds, in our memories, and stand before us just a few blocks up or waiting around a corner, hovering near our bedroom window, gently holding our hand, trailing behind until we look. A time for all the old has-beens of religions long-lost, traditions long-dead, to come alive again to walk the earth; someone dons a costume to commemorate witches and mummies, devils and werewolves, vampires and gargoyles, and shouts “Boo!”

Amy Jo Barker

Barker

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