Little steps, bandaged by a wiggle skirt. A bowl full of goodies, bristling with myriad sugar-induced comas.
Trick or treat!
A witch’s cackle. The laughter of children.
Thank you, but painted faces fall as little red boxes rattle into outstretched pillow cases.
The door shuts. The bowl sets down, awaiting the next gaggle of zombies, mummies, and black cats.
A thud. A crack. A splotch of yellow and white spilling down the windows.
Oh, those little savages!
A sigh. The rustle of newspaper. You shouldn’t have given them raisins, dear.