Giddy Moon
By
Donovan Douglas Thiesson
Alistair’s smile shines bright and the crescent moon beams back. It is a cold October, and coarse frost coats the pavement. Alistair’s stringy hair flaps lightly in the crisp night breeze as he sits in the doorway of an innocuous bungalow, a salad bowl filled with Halloween candy before him. He wears no costume, and never will.
Three children, their own disguises blended with winter parkas, crowd together onto the porch. In unison, they thrust forward pillowcases and plastic pumpkin pails.
“Trick or treat!”
Alistair’s smile grows, threatening to split his face in two. This is not a pleasant smile, yet children will ignore anything for candy.
“What happens if I choose trick?” Alistair asks.
The youngest, her face squeezed tight beneath a spotted cow hood, speaks up first, a trace of confusion in her voice. She is too young to have given ‘trick or treat’ much thought. “I guess you do a trick...?”
Alistair laughs, genuinely caught off guard. It is hard for him to hate this girl. “That’s right! But as you can see, I’m too old for tricks nowadays.” He stretches his arms wide, and his tired elbows make audible ‘pops’.
A witch, her face painted green, and her black hat stuffed on crooked over a toque, winces. “Mister... does that hurt?”
“Only when I walk,” Alistair says with a wink. The witch looks relieved.
“Do you have arthritis?” asks the oldest child, a boy of around eleven, dressed in a cloth cloak. A jedi, or perhaps a monk. “Our grandma has arthritis.”
“Is that right?” Alistair sticks his hand deep inside the salad bowl, filled to the brim with rockets, caramel squares, and tiny kit-kats. “Well, me and your grandma must have a fair bit in common! Does she like candy too?”
“Yes!” the children cheer.
“She loves them very much,” the small cow insists earnestly. Little felt horns on her hood wiggle as she nods her head. “Especially licorice.”
Alistair’s smile shrinks a bit. These are good children, his joints can tell. Yet he has promises to keep, molded and uttered long ago, both to himself and to the ever-watchful October moon.
He scoops a handful of candy into each child’s container and chases it with another. The children respond with gasps and sparkling eyes. “And here’s a special treat, something kids only got when I was a child.”
Alistair reaches into a second bowl, this one concealed off to the side of the door frame and produces several puffed wheat squares. Up until now, this evening’s children have acted disappointed by this addition, their faces drawn down into sour little bows. But not these three. The witch, the cow and the cloaked boy are much too polite for such disdainful theatrics.
“Looks yummy!” the witch says, and Alistair realizes she means her words. She actually likes them. His joints pop again in approval.
“They’re my favorite,” Alistair says. He loves puffed wheat. The taste of molasses has become something of a rarity in today’s modern confection. As rare as these three children.
“Well, thank you mister,” the cloaked boy says. “And take care of yourself.”
They prance together down the walkway to their waiting mother beyond. Alistair groans. How could the moon be so wrong? Why these three?
The mother of the children, a doughy woman with a purple, overly poofy jacket, approaches slowly up the drive, her hand raised in ‘hello’. Alistair repeats the gesture. Her greedy eyes and she purses her lips, conjuring up a mask of concern.
She reminds Alistair of his own mother, long dead and good riddance. Alistair hated his mother, even more than he hated the children from school, the ones that threw rocks at him long ago, injuring him so badly he spent two months in hospital. Now this rude woman standing before him doesn’t even say hello, as if a hand gesture will suffice.
“We were expecting Mr. Jeffwright. Is he not in?”
Alistair’s elastic grin pulls taught. The woman’s face takes on a tinge of confusion, as if she expected Alistair to drop to his wobbly knees and confess to a crime, or at least a passionate, homosexual scandal.
“I’m in town visiting my nephew,” Alistair croons. “Uncle Charlie.”
The woman’s confusion turns to embarrassment. Her shoulders drop, her face softens, and Alistair hates her for believing him so easily. The moon keeps track of his lies, and now he has one more on his ledger, and all to please this insufferable busy body.
The woman raises her nose into the air, and sniffs like a starved greyhound. “Is that puffed wheat I smell?”
“A woman after my own heart!” Alistair exclaims, and retrieves a puffed wheat square, cupping it two handed like a sacrificial offering. “Please. On the house.” He winks, and she winks back.
“Well, Uncle Charlie, don’t mind if I do.” The woman plucks the square from his palms and starts to peel the saran wrap away. “Give my regards to your nephew.”
She retreats back to the trio of siblings without so much as a ‘thank you’ or a ‘farewell’. Alistair is grateful she will be the first to taste his special puffed wheat. The moon has shown these children mercy, choosing instead their noxious mother.
With no other kids in sight, Alistair locks the front door, scoops up the bowls of treats, and tosses a box of crushed razorblades and tiny fishhooks into the bowl of puffed wheat. Mr. Jeffwright’s corpse, cooling on the kitchen floor, catches at Alistair’s heels and he nearly trips over the curled body. His knees pop in protest.
Outside, the crisp October air rubs his face, and Alistair makes sure to slide his feet a few inches through the snow with every step, just as a child might. No need to get sloppy and leave shoe prints. Somewhere close by, three children begin to scream.
Alistair turns his face up to the ink dark sky and smiles.
The giddy moon grins back.
Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides just outside your bedroom window. In fact, he is watching you read this right now, and is disappointed that you have not read any of his other stories, some of which have been published through Fiction on the Web, Farthest Star Publishing, and Tales to Terrify. Donovan’s hobbies include collecting fossils, eating butter chicken, and going through your garbage at night. If you want Donovan to stop hiding in your closet, feel free to like and follow him on Facebook at ‘Donovan Douglas Thiesson.’
By
Donovan Douglas Thiesson
Alistair’s smile shines bright and the crescent moon beams back. It is a cold October, and coarse frost coats the pavement. Alistair’s stringy hair flaps lightly in the crisp night breeze as he sits in the doorway of an innocuous bungalow, a salad bowl filled with Halloween candy before him. He wears no costume, and never will.
Three children, their own disguises blended with winter parkas, crowd together onto the porch. In unison, they thrust forward pillowcases and plastic pumpkin pails.
“Trick or treat!”
Alistair’s smile grows, threatening to split his face in two. This is not a pleasant smile, yet children will ignore anything for candy.
“What happens if I choose trick?” Alistair asks.
The youngest, her face squeezed tight beneath a spotted cow hood, speaks up first, a trace of confusion in her voice. She is too young to have given ‘trick or treat’ much thought. “I guess you do a trick...?”
Alistair laughs, genuinely caught off guard. It is hard for him to hate this girl. “That’s right! But as you can see, I’m too old for tricks nowadays.” He stretches his arms wide, and his tired elbows make audible ‘pops’.
A witch, her face painted green, and her black hat stuffed on crooked over a toque, winces. “Mister... does that hurt?”
“Only when I walk,” Alistair says with a wink. The witch looks relieved.
“Do you have arthritis?” asks the oldest child, a boy of around eleven, dressed in a cloth cloak. A jedi, or perhaps a monk. “Our grandma has arthritis.”
“Is that right?” Alistair sticks his hand deep inside the salad bowl, filled to the brim with rockets, caramel squares, and tiny kit-kats. “Well, me and your grandma must have a fair bit in common! Does she like candy too?”
“Yes!” the children cheer.
“She loves them very much,” the small cow insists earnestly. Little felt horns on her hood wiggle as she nods her head. “Especially licorice.”
Alistair’s smile shrinks a bit. These are good children, his joints can tell. Yet he has promises to keep, molded and uttered long ago, both to himself and to the ever-watchful October moon.
He scoops a handful of candy into each child’s container and chases it with another. The children respond with gasps and sparkling eyes. “And here’s a special treat, something kids only got when I was a child.”
Alistair reaches into a second bowl, this one concealed off to the side of the door frame and produces several puffed wheat squares. Up until now, this evening’s children have acted disappointed by this addition, their faces drawn down into sour little bows. But not these three. The witch, the cow and the cloaked boy are much too polite for such disdainful theatrics.
“Looks yummy!” the witch says, and Alistair realizes she means her words. She actually likes them. His joints pop again in approval.
“They’re my favorite,” Alistair says. He loves puffed wheat. The taste of molasses has become something of a rarity in today’s modern confection. As rare as these three children.
“Well, thank you mister,” the cloaked boy says. “And take care of yourself.”
They prance together down the walkway to their waiting mother beyond. Alistair groans. How could the moon be so wrong? Why these three?
The mother of the children, a doughy woman with a purple, overly poofy jacket, approaches slowly up the drive, her hand raised in ‘hello’. Alistair repeats the gesture. Her greedy eyes and she purses her lips, conjuring up a mask of concern.
She reminds Alistair of his own mother, long dead and good riddance. Alistair hated his mother, even more than he hated the children from school, the ones that threw rocks at him long ago, injuring him so badly he spent two months in hospital. Now this rude woman standing before him doesn’t even say hello, as if a hand gesture will suffice.
“We were expecting Mr. Jeffwright. Is he not in?”
Alistair’s elastic grin pulls taught. The woman’s face takes on a tinge of confusion, as if she expected Alistair to drop to his wobbly knees and confess to a crime, or at least a passionate, homosexual scandal.
“I’m in town visiting my nephew,” Alistair croons. “Uncle Charlie.”
The woman’s confusion turns to embarrassment. Her shoulders drop, her face softens, and Alistair hates her for believing him so easily. The moon keeps track of his lies, and now he has one more on his ledger, and all to please this insufferable busy body.
The woman raises her nose into the air, and sniffs like a starved greyhound. “Is that puffed wheat I smell?”
“A woman after my own heart!” Alistair exclaims, and retrieves a puffed wheat square, cupping it two handed like a sacrificial offering. “Please. On the house.” He winks, and she winks back.
“Well, Uncle Charlie, don’t mind if I do.” The woman plucks the square from his palms and starts to peel the saran wrap away. “Give my regards to your nephew.”
She retreats back to the trio of siblings without so much as a ‘thank you’ or a ‘farewell’. Alistair is grateful she will be the first to taste his special puffed wheat. The moon has shown these children mercy, choosing instead their noxious mother.
With no other kids in sight, Alistair locks the front door, scoops up the bowls of treats, and tosses a box of crushed razorblades and tiny fishhooks into the bowl of puffed wheat. Mr. Jeffwright’s corpse, cooling on the kitchen floor, catches at Alistair’s heels and he nearly trips over the curled body. His knees pop in protest.
Outside, the crisp October air rubs his face, and Alistair makes sure to slide his feet a few inches through the snow with every step, just as a child might. No need to get sloppy and leave shoe prints. Somewhere close by, three children begin to scream.
Alistair turns his face up to the ink dark sky and smiles.
The giddy moon grins back.
Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides just outside your bedroom window. In fact, he is watching you read this right now, and is disappointed that you have not read any of his other stories, some of which have been published through Fiction on the Web, Farthest Star Publishing, and Tales to Terrify. Donovan’s hobbies include collecting fossils, eating butter chicken, and going through your garbage at night. If you want Donovan to stop hiding in your closet, feel free to like and follow him on Facebook at ‘Donovan Douglas Thiesson.’