dish of macaroni and cheese in the microwave.
“Dad number eight is draining out in his office,” she said as she filled up two glasses with milk.
Andrew took in this information. “They weren’t as bad as number five.”
Erin made a face. “I doubt any ever will be. None will last more than a day, at least.”
Andrew fiddled with his teeth. Chomp, chomp.
“So what’s that all about?”
“I’m a mutant shark monster!” Andrew exclaimed.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Nuh-uh, shut up!”
Erin squinted at her brother and his “costume.”
“Maybe you, like, need fins or something.”
“That might work. I wish I had shark eyes.”
“Sorry, all out,” said Erin as the microwave dinged. “Besides, I’m not sure if they would work in the same way as the teeth.”
“Why not?”
Erin didn’t answer him. Instead she said, “Maybe I can put a glamour on them to
“You think so?” he asked excitedly.
“Maybe.”
Andrew’s face fell as she put out all of the food of the kitchen table.
“Nah, you’ll get in trouble. We’re both gonna get in trouble.”
“Yeah, eventually,” she replied as she laid out paper plates and silverware. “But it’s Tuesday, the 26th. The parents made their weekly call to check in on Sundays. I know, ‘cause I overheard once. That means I can still go to my party on Friday and you…”
“Can totally go trick or treating on Saturday! On Halloween!”
“Well, Halloween is on Sunday, but trick or treating hours are on Saturday this year, so yeah. Yeah. Fuck it, we’ll get in trouble next week.” Andrew and Erin, both smiling, ate in silence for a while. After a bit, however, their own thoughts began to consume them. The siblings had the same thoughts.
“Erin?” Andrew asked as he pushed his macaroni around on the plate.
“Yeah?”
“Why can’t we live with our
Andrew always asked the same question shortly after they had murdered their latest set of surrogate parents. Erin felt like she should be mad at him since he kept bringing it up, but she had the same feelings. The whole thing made her angry.
“I dunno, Andrew. The
The young Goblin cast his eyes over at the dead body of their most recent Mom. “Um, I don’t think it’s working.”
“No, Andrew,” Erin said with a sad smile. “I don’t think so, either.” THE PERFECT PUMPKIN
John Claude Smith
John Claude Smith has had 50 dark fiction veering into horror veering into what-the-hell-was-that?, short stories, 3 poems, and over 1,100 music journalism pieces published. He is currently aligning the TOC for an ebook anthology entitled,
***
“If it wasn’t a week before Halloween, I’d be scared crazy. But I know you well enough, Danny, to know that you like to tell stories, and I’ve already heard this one a dozen times over the last two weeks—”
“But it’s true, Melinda. Cutter’s farm is where old Dr. Ranier does abortions, or at least did them. Look, it’s perfect: it’s just far enough out of town as to be kind of anon … anonymous. He used to be a doctor, a…a baby doctor—”
“Obstetrician.”
“Yeah, yeah, an obstetrician. And he was disbarred—”
“That’s for a lawyer.”
“Well, shit, Brainic! He lost his license and moved out here, about ten, maybe twelve-years-ago, and since he’s not really a farmer, he has to have some income, so he—”
“So he sets up office as a country abortionist—”
“And the babies are supposed to come back to haunt anybody who trespasses—”
“Stop! I’ve heard enough. He must be doing some farming now, otherwise, where’d all these pumpkins come from?”
“I dunno, they must grow wild. Creepy stuff, eh?”
“Just nightmares or rumors, made-up stories meant to scare kids from having sex, and in this case, ‘cause of the abortionist slant, getting pregnant and all that. Kind of a gruesome safe sex message, don’t you think? And isn’t that what all horror stories made primarily for kids are up to, anyway?
Just like in the movies, if you’re a teenager and you have sex, the boogyman’s gonna get you— ooooOOOOOoooo, I’m soooo frightened.” With whiplash precision, she shifted her attitude from mockingly scared to salaciously seductive, easily distracting him. “Danny, oh, Danny, bab-eeeee...” She purred the last syllable, long and languid. She grabbed his crotch, squeezing hard, whispering something nasty and oh-so-enticing in his ear. As his penis turned to steel, his brain turned to mush.
Having gotten his attention, she let go and backed away. “You gonna help me get a perfect pumpkin from this patch or not?”
“What about my—”
“Later, big boy, when we’re out of range of any sexually oppressed boogymen disguised as abortionist farmers.”
Danny Cruise peered out at the fog-mottled field, wispy tendrils like plumes of thickening smoke eerily weaving through the pumpkins, looking like a congregation of ghosts…or a herd of monstrous beasts lashing the pumpkins with writhing tentacles; his imagination sprang back to life with a potency that unnerved him while coinciding with the deflation of his penis.
Melinda Harner, his girlfriend, folded her arms across her burgeoning bosom, trying to fend off the October chill. She peered at him, obstinate in her quest to obtain the perfect pumpkin. Now that she had spotted what she claimed was
Danny hopped over the barbed-wire fence, ragged metal tips ripping two fingers; he winced, put the stinging fingers in his mouth, and sprinted toward the fog-embraced pumpkin patch.
“Which one did you want?” His voice seemed not to carry, trapped in the puffy white shroud of fog. But it did carry, and she responded
“There,” Melinda harrumphed, pointing to his right at the perfect pumpkin, she thought, for her to carve a masterpiece. Her voice hit Danny with the force of a thunderclap; goosebumps tickled his flesh.
After having heard about the fat, perfect pumpkins in this patch, as well as the sordid recent history of the farm via whispers in the hallways at Lincoln High, anxiously retold by Danny mere minutes ago, Melinda knew she
