We always knew it could be like this.
A sun drenched indian summer that lingers until well into the second week of October, cold nights huddled behind faux spiderweb curtains drinking pumpkin beer and slinging dirty mad libs, sidewalks and graveyards crunchy with dead leaves and every now and then the wisp of woodsmoke alive and writhing on the breeze.
We eat books for breakfast and shit poetry without a second thought.
I am full of ideas.
I want to write a real horror story that makes good on all the things that are wrong with American horror as a genre, I have three stories whose endings are floating around like plump and rosy apples in a dark barrel of murk, and then there's that novel biting at my heels and gnawing on the bedposts.
I just wish this season would stop being so damn tantalizing with all its ferris wheels and pie, the horror movies and the tiny wrapped up lollies, the costumes and the screams and the tattered memory of summer blowing along with the trash in the wind.
