Counting the Beans by Priscilla Brown

 

 

Counting the Beans

by Priscilla Brown

  

https://wwwww.books2read.com/Class-Act 

 Gina's new boss is holding a secret she has a right to know. 

Will he spill the beans?

 In the vegetable aisle at my local supermarket, I came across the treasurer of a local organisation to which I belong. In this capacity as bean counter in chief, she has to know how many beans make five. And counting was exactly what she was doing, making hard work of putting runner beans one by one into her brown paper bag. Maybe she wanted to be sure each family member would receive a precise number. This bean counter completed her arithmetic, leaving the space for me to grab three handfuls which I knew from experience was the perfect amount for my kitchen.

 Any kind of grocery shopping is for me a fairly mindless occupation, and while continuing around the aisles I remembered how runner beans had figured in my childhood. My father grew them in what was known as the 'kitchen garden'. My mother used to send me as a young child to pick them, adding Mind you count them. Perhaps she really needed to know the exact number, or else she was encouraging me to use my number skills. In primary school, we grew beans in  jar as a science experiment. I don't remember, and probably never understood, why. As homework, I had to grow one in a jar and write up its progress. My mother was not impressed when I used one of her jars she reserved for jam  making. And probably my teacher was not impressed when my bean failed to do anything except shrivel up. Bottom of the class - again!

 

May you enjoy growing and/or eating beans. And, of course, enjoy reading . Best wishes, Priscilla.

https://bwlpublishing.ca

 https://prscillabrownauthor.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Famous Authors and Famous Words by Eden Monroe

 

Visit Eden Monroe's author page for book and purchase options

Famous authors and their famous words … and the unusual places in which they were written.

It was interesting to discover where some very well known authors chose to tap their genius, and a few might surprise you. From the confines of a coffin to a luxurious Victorian bathtub complete with fresh fruit, the jewels of their imagination were polished to perfection.

For most authors, famous or otherwise, the best place is the quietest place, while others find their muse in the midst of everyday commotion – some even seek it to start the flow of their creative juices. For me it was the silence and sweet smell of a summer haymow. That’s where I wrote my first novel, Dare To Inherit, and I was certainly not alone while there. Watching nearby with curious intent was a whole sisterhood of barn cats of various sizes and descriptions. However it could only ever be a short-lived writing space because when the fields begin to ripen the mow is quickly restocked - with no room for authors.

A café was the now famous choice of J K Rowling while creating a good portion of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. And Dame Edith Sitwell prepared for her day’s writing by lying, until inspired, in an actual coffin. And how about Sir Walter Scott? One of his most famous poems, Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field, came about while riding horseback in the hills not far from Edinburgh, Scotland. Said the much-celebrated bard himself: “I had many a grand gallop among these braes when I was thinking of Marmion.”

As I Lay Dying is the epic Southern Gothic novel by one of the all-time greats, 1949 Nobel Prize in Literature winner, William Faulkner. It was written in a most surprising place, a power plant, where Faulkner was working as a supervisor during the night shift. And the incomparable Maya Angelou wrote in rented hotel rooms where she created her magnificent brand of magic. British spy novelist John le Carré often wrote while riding trains, while Gertrude Stein, American writer, poet and playwright, equally inspired by motion it seems, put pen and paper to good use in her Model T.

Charles Dickens usually chose a more traditional spot to write some of the best literature ever written, classic novels such as The Pickwick Papers, A Christmas Carol, David Copperfield and more, and that was while sitting at his desk. In fact his own desk and chair were so vital to his creative process that he’d have the pair shipped to him during extended absences from home. For Virginia Woolf, considered one of the foremost modernists of the Twentieth Century, it was a much-loved old armchair in a basement storage room, and Agatha Christie’s legendary mystery plots were sorted out while sitting in a large Victorian bathtub - eating fresh plump apples.

Stephen King is said to have used the laundry room in the family’s doublewide trailer during the early days of his writing career, at least that’s where Carrie was written on a makeshift desk wedged between the washer and dryer. And Charlotte Webb’s E. B. White often chose his own busy living room with his family around him to write his masterpieces, pointing out: “A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.”

In addition to a particular space, there were also favourite writing times preferred by many famous authors. It’s said that Hemmingway was inspired by the first light of morning. For Mark Twain, who wrote every day, it was after tucking away a generous meal at the breakfast table that held him until it was time for dinner. During the intervening hours he wrote, and if his family should need him, “they would blow a loud horn and he would come.”

George Bernard Shaw also liked to write during the day and presumably only when the sun was shining. To accomplish that he chose a most unique setting to create his Pygmalion, a custom-made rotating hut in his backyard. The why of such a contraption is simple, Shaw liked to write while sitting in the direct path of the sun and the rotating hut accomplished that.

Every author knows what suits them best and they instinctively gravitate toward that. Personally I like to lose myself in the world I’m creating, and ideally with no interruptions. Unfortunately even one interruption can put the brakes on a delicious creative flow. Sometimes it stops it altogether if the interruption is prolonged, although it’s something that we as authors must routinely rise above. Other times of course nothing can stop the rush of a good story when all we can do is work at breakneck speed to capture it as quickly as it’s coming to us. I sometimes write in longhand and such was the case with Storms in the Valley, book two of the Emerald Valley Ranch series. That story told itself, I was just along for the ride. All I had to do was get it down on paper and I still remember my pen racing across the page, enjoying the story as it unfolded.

The sounds of nature, such as wind, birdsong, the hooting of an owl or the scream of seagulls, rain, thunder, a babbling brook, ocean waves breaking on a pebbled beach, and on and on, are not interruptions at all but rather an accompanying natural orchestra that can help set the scene. In some cases there can be a little too much nature, such as a young bear stretched out under the deck of my tiny cottage on a hot afternoon. That’s where I went to write, and as it turns out it’s also where the bear went to sleep, so I left quietly and so did the bear at some point.

I named my tiny cottage that sits by the side of a lake, Birch Petal, nestled as it is in a stand of handsome white and yellow birch trees. Michael created this space for me - a little think tank where I could write, and many years before that he’d actually built the beautiful three-acre lake itself. The view from the Birch Petal deck never failed to inspire me.

No matter where writers may write - or when, all authors aspire to be famous. It’s the storyteller in us, and the audience we seek to entertain. And no matter the level of our success, most authors write for that one special someone in their life. I wrote for my beloved Michael.   He will always be my inspiration, an enormous and integral part of my journey as an author. He was a knowledgeable resource, an indispensible critic and always, my greatest champion.

Windego, and other Monsters

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WINDEGO: An evil spirit of the northland, a monstrous creature who comes prowling in winter, hungry for human flesh; it is remorseless, pitiless. 

If the year was a lean one, winter was a hard time for the hunter/gatherers who lived in the NWT. The People would leave their summer camps in small groups and scatter into the vast emptiness, away from the lakes and rivers where they'd all come together as a tribe to trade and celebrate the fat season of summe. Our of necessity, they'd change their tribal, summer way of life to retreat to live in isolation, hunting and trapping the range around them, away from others who were now engaged in the same thing. Sometimes, it did not go well; the hunters were not lucky; the game was scarce or had changed from their accustomed paths of migration. 

Then, the spectre of starvation haunted the isolated camps, and sometimes people were driven to desperate measures in order to survive. A man who had eaten his family in order to stay alive, was said to have "gone  Windego." Such a primal sin was viewed with horror, so a monster was created to explain this counter-cultural behavior. A few of those stories came to be written down in early colonial times, but the oral versions were well known to those who were exposed to the fierce winters, who sometimes had experienced, first-hand, hunger and the awful struggle to survive. 

It is said the Windego eats his own lips and checks, so his skull is always partially visible, and he arrives surrounded by a stench so horrible that it even overpowers the bitter winter wind.  People, driven to this extremity, were believed to have been taken over by this dreadful being, and that was the reason they had committed the unholy crime of cannibalism.  In fact, during the 19th Century, early Canadian psychologists defined "going Windego" as a "culturally based" disorder.

(Thunderbird--well known to the Northern First Nations--

among the Tlicho, Thunderbird was referred to indirectly, as "Father."

He's one of the good guys.)

Today, the Windego is, in some quarters, viewed as a cryptid. Wikipeidia defines cryptids as "animals that cryptozoologists believe may exist somewhere in the wild, but are not believed to exist by mainstream science." Cryptozoology primarily looks at anecdotes and blurry photos, the sort of  claims rejected by the scientific community. These monsters now feature in YouTube videos in all manner of ghastly forms, but this vision of the Windego is of only passing interest to me.

"Windego" appears to me--not as a myth created by "superstitious 1st Nation's People," --but as an acutely observed form of human personality disorder. I didn't figure this out on my own, but by listening to Buffy Sainte Marie's song called "Priests of the Golden Bull." 

She makes a connection with the storied monster and the unfettered greed and disregard for the cooperative behavior which holds together our societies. Look around. The Dark Triad personality, (where a subject possesses a toxic combo of Narcissism, Michiavellianism and Psychopathy) is having a good run these days among CEO's, Tech Bros, politicians, and the sort of "religous" figures who live in gated mansions and always need their followers to send more money. 

In a world where it's considered smart to get rich while ignoring the human suffering or the irreparable harm pursuit of this quarter's profits causes a community -- or the arm done to the water, the air, or the planet -- Ms. Sainte Marie sees the ever-hungry, cannibalistic Windigo. The "Greed is Good," mentality is on display everywhere. 

Take a look at ever so many modern companies, their successes measured by how many jobs they've eliminated, or how they've stolen pension funds from retirees in the course of a merger, or how many rural communities they have destroyed, for instance, building a petrochemical refinery or an industrial pig farm next door to a small town which doesn't have the clout to fight back. 

"Gentrification" in cities raises rents until the essential workers--those who run the store checkouts, clean the buildings and streets, teach and/or care for children and seniors, can no longer afford to live close to where they are employed. Other casualties include small entrepreneurial businesses of all kinds, from restaurants and local bars, to independent bookshops and corner convenience stores.

Today's Windego doesn't just live in the deep woods. These days, he (or she) is seen as a "celebrity," on our television screens, and all over the internet and Twitter. Many are even elected to high public office. Worst of all, their "Not my brother's keeper" attitude is now held up to young people as the smart way to live. 

Instead of dwelling on psychos and cannibals, instead, let's take this time of All Hallows, All Saints and All Souls to find some peace and to give thanks: to remember our ancestors, our friends, mentors, and family who have passed beyond the veil. Let's also remember our honored dead, the kind of people who served and helped, rather than injured, the common folks of our communities and our country. 

~~Juliet Waldron 

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Zombies, Pumpkins, and Spooky Stories, What's not to Love About Halloween? By Connie Vines

 I’ve written about my love of Halloween, my fondness for Classic Universal  Studio Monster movies, and my belief that the novel "Dracula" is a tortured love 💕story.

If Halloween is your fun-kid-friendly holiday, you're probably familiar with many exciting and spooky facts. But we've got some Halloween trivia questions and answers that will entertain your guests and your trick-or-treaters if they dare to ask. 🎃🦇👻🧛

🐺 Black and orange were deliberately chosen as Halloween colors because of the fall-winter connection the day represents. Orange symbolizes the warmth of autumn and the last of the harvest season, while Black represents the cold, dark, and long winter.

🎃Pumpkins are technically a fruit. Pumpkins are members of the gourd family, including cucumbers, cantaloupe, zucchini, and melons. 

TRUE OR FALSE, WOMEN USED TO PERFORM SPOOKY RITUALS AIMED AT FINDING THEIR FUTURE HUSBANDS?

Answer: True.  

Women used to perform "rituals" to help them find their future husbands. 

🍎 Women tossed apple peels over their shoulders, hoping they'd see the shape of their future hubby's initials on the ground. 

🕯 Another involved a woman standing in front of a mirror in a dark room and holding up a candle to see their future husband's face. 😨 (too scary for me!)

I also enjoy baking 😋. Pumpkin Bread? No. Banana Bread 🍌🍞 because..well, a bunch ripens so very quickly! Halloween Cookies will be in tomorrow's oven.

I hope you enjoyed the Halloween Trivia featured today.

Remember:

Smashwords is holding a Super(natural) Sale on all BWL books this month!!

Load up your cart 🙋🛒and 'treat' yourself with Howling good reads!

Reviews for "Here Today, Zombie Tomorrow"

Alive, Steampunk novelist Meredith Misso worked hard at living the perfect SoCal celeb life. Now that she is a Zombie, it’s all about the make-up, non-vegan lifestyle, and her soon-to-be ex, who somehow managed to Velcro himself back into her life.

Novella length: “Quirky, Sassy, and Fun! ~Authors Den Review

#

First Line: “You and Elvis have done a great job on this house,” Meredith said as her older sister led the way downstairs toward the kitchen, where the tour began.

Review:

Meredith Misso, a thirty-two-year-old raised from the dead and living undead for the last six months, goes through a heck of a time pretending to be something she no longer is, so she breaks off her longtime relationship. Viktor, her ex, has his own reasons for throwing in the towel.

Ms. Vines writes quite a fun spin on the supernatural, the romance, the break-up, and the surprises, all leading to a happy ending. An excellent page-turner, captivating and humorous, and it left me smiling. I would enjoy reading another of Ms. Vines’ books. 

Eat, Drink, and Be Scary!

Happy Halloween 

Connie

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/vinesbwl

https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/

October, Halloween, new books, and all kinds of bugs - by Vijaya Schartz

Find this new release at your favorite online retailer HERE
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Halloween decorations are up everywhere. Spooky skeletons and shadowy graves, giant spiders, ghosts, and scary sounds punctuate the season. And new book releases on the same theme accentuate the mood.

Around Phoenix, Arizona, it’s also the season when night temperatures finally drop, prompting us to open doors and windows. Of course, the bugs take it as an invitation to get indoors to shelter from the cold… and here, the buggers are big, and some can kill you, like scorpions, centipedes, killer bees, black widows. There are also roaches, brown spiders, moths, horse flies, wood bees, fire ants, and West-Nile- diseased mosquitoes.

I refuse to spray harmful chemicals around my place, so I adopted a direct approach, the smash technique. I’m good at it, and I kill nine times out of ten. No quarters. They invade my home, they want to kill me or suck my blood, they have to die. If I don’t have a fly swatter handy, my bare hand or a shoe will do, depending on toxicity. This favorite technique also keeps my reflexes sharp.

Fortunately, in my constant hunt for bugs, I have some help. Princess Jasmine, my sixteen-year-old calico cat, is also a great hunter of bugs… and lizards… and other critters. Did you know cats are immune to scorpions? They are.

Unlike me, Princess Jasmine usually eats her fresh kill, chewing it with gusto… even if it’s still wiggling. Personally, I prefer to drop the cadavers in the trash… or flush them down the toilet. But, to each his own…

There are none of these bugs in my latest science fiction novel, as space is not a welcoming environment for them. But ANGEL SHIP, Book One of the Blue Phantom series, features a strong heroine, a brave hero, twisted villains, lots of action and adventure, a little romance, and a large feline bodyguard with deadly fangs and claws. Hope you enjoy it.

All my eBooks are currently half off at SMASHWORDS! Hurry!

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 The Blue Phantom glows like a beacon in black space, appears and vanishes, and never registers on scanners. Rumors say it will save the righteous, the oppressed, and the downtrodden… and slay the unworthy without mercy. The space pirates fear it. Their victims pray for it… but its help comes at a price…

Desperate to save her people from the Marauders swarming her space freighter, Kefira prays for a miracle. Blake Volkov, legendary captain of the Blue Phantom hears her plea and deems her and her refugees worthy of his help. Grateful for the rescue, Kefira finds his price shocking. But despite his glowing wings, handsome looks and impressive abilities, Blake admits he is no angel… although Kefira’s feline bodyguard strongly disagrees.

Meanwhile, an old enemy bent on revenge unleashed an unspeakable evil on the galaxy. Time to face past mistakes… time for innocent blood to flow. Nothing prepared Kefira for the upheaval ahead.

Can Blake find redemption? Can Kefira save her people? Can she ever trust and love again?

Find more similar novels set in the Azura universe at:

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Vijaya Schartz, author

Strong Heroines, Brave Heroes, cats

http://www.vijayaschartz.com

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Ideas at dawn--Tricia McGill

 

Find all my books here on my BWL author page

I’ve lost count of the times my Muse has jogged my early morning thoughts. My mind seems to work overtime between 4 and 5 am. The past few weeks have not been the best, so consequently writing has taken a back seat. My eldest sister passed away, just a week or so after her 100^th birthday. Then just last week my little shih tzu went to doggy heaven and the house is so empty without my companion. But true to form, before the sun came up this morning, the first line of my next book popped into my head, thus also giving me something to write about here.

I already knew the setting, which would be Tasmania (then Van Diemen’s Land), more specifically the convict prison at Port Arthur. Around 1848 the first stone was laid for this prison. The grand idea at the time was to shift from physical punishment to mental subjugation. Britain could no longer send convicts to America after the American War of Independence; therefore, male and female convicts (some who committed trivial crimes) were sent to Port Arthur. Every country has their own tragic history of such places. The prison closed in 1877.

Of all the tasks that convicts were forced to carry out at Port Arthur, timber cutting was perhaps the worst. Enormous trees were felled (no heavy machinery in those days) and a sawpit was dug under the log so that it could then be cut into smaller lengths. One man stood on the top of the log and one beneath in the pit—where, as they sawed across, the sawdust would land on him, filling his eyes. Once the timber was cut into rough pieces as many as 50 convicts (nicknamed the Centipede Gang) would carry this great weight to where the timber was then cut into planks, boards, spars etc.  over a larger sawpit. Large tracts of bushland were harvested in this way to feed a growing timber industry.

Years ago, my husband and I visited Port Arthur, and one of the tour guides, after ushering a group of us into a small cell that had been used as solitary confinement for misdemeanours committed by convicts, closed the door, switched off the light, and left us in total blackness. I screamed to be let out as my claustrophobia kicked in. Imagine how men must have suffered, and doubtless some went insane—I know I certainly would have after just a short time. The site for the prison was carefully chosen, for the 30-metre-wide isthmus of Eaglehawk Neck, the only land route to the rest of the island, was fenced and guarded by soldiers, man traps, and half-starved dogs. The prison closed in 1877.

So, there you are, I have my first line and my scenario mapped out, which just leaves the rest of the story plus characters to be created. Which doubtless will come to me from early morning.

For excerpts etc. visit my Web Page.

More Memories of the Queen

 https://bookswelove.net/martin-paula/ 

More Memories of the Queen

Last month I told you about my early memories of Queen Elizabeth II shortly after her accession to the throne in 1952. Here are a few more memories:

Two years after the Coronation, the Queen visited my home town as part of her tour of Lancashire. By then, I was a Girl Guide, and we formed a ‘guard of honour’ along one of the roads her car travelled into the centre of town. Being at the front of the crowds lining the route, we had a quite a good view of her – I remember she was wearing a purple coat. Once the car had passed us, my friend and I decided to run as fast as we could the half mile or so to the centre of the town in order to see her again on the steps of the Town Hall – and caught another (distant) glimpse of her from the back of the crowd there.

It was forty years later before I saw her again. By this time I was a Girl Guide Commissioner, and returned home from a Guiding event one Saturday to find a letter awaiting me from the office of the Lord Lieutenant of Manchester with an invitation to a Buckingham Palace Garden Party. About ten minutes later, I had a phone call from our Region Commissioner, telling me that she would be sending me an invitation to one of the Garden Parties. So you wait all your life for an invitation to Buckingham Palace – and then you get two in one day!

Anyway, on a sunny July day, one of my Guiding friends and I joined the queue outside the Palace, showed our tickets, and then we were free to wander around the Palace gardens – along with about 8,000 other people! We found it fascinating to see all the uniforms, traditional dress, and of course the hats of many of the other guests. The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh appeared about 4pm, and walked along a cordoned off area surrounded by crowds. We decided instead to stand next to the rope cordon near the Royal tea tent, so not only did we get a close-up view of the Queen, but also several other members of the Royal Family as they walked across the lawn to the tent. They included Princess Anne, and also Prince Michael of Kent who, with his full beard, was the spitting image of his grandfather King George V.

At the end of the afternoon, we exited through the Palace – through a hallway with wide, red-carpeted staircases at each side, then across the gravelled inner courtyard, and out under the arch into the forecourt of the Palace where there were several photographers offering to take our photos. Of course we said, ‘Yes, please!’

The next event was again thanks to the Lord Lieutenant, who sent me two tickets for the Millennium Service at St Paul’s Cathedral on 2nd January 2000. Outside St. Paul’s, we saw that people were clutching yellow, green, and pink tickets. As our tickets were white, I joked to my friend that they probably meant we would be seated behind one of the white marble pillars, unable to see anything! Imagine our wide-eyed surprise, therefore, when an usher looked at our tickets and said, ‘Ah, white tickets. Go right down to the front, under the dome’. Which was how we ended up on the sixth row from the front, next to the aisle. It was a case of ‘spot the famous faces’ as the Prime Minister (Tony Blair) and his wife, and several other government minsters took their seats on the first two rows. Then the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh came down the aisle, escorted by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The service lasted about an hour, and as the Queen walked back up the aisle, she smiled at me! Maybe she recognised my Guiding uniform – or maybe she just smiles at everyone!

My last story is one of ‘just missed seeing the Queen.’ In 2002, we held an international camp at the Guide Activity Centre about 20 miles from Preston, and at the end of the event I had to take six Canadian Guides and their two leaders to Preston station in the minibus. As I approached the centre of the town, it was apparent from the crowds lining the pavements that something was happening. A policeman stopped me and said I couldn’t go any further because the Queen was due to arrive at Preston Station and all the roads were closed. When I explained that the Guides and their leaders had to catch a train in 30 minutes, he spoke to someone on his radio, and then told me which streets to use to reach the station. He added, ‘But you’ll have be quick. Drop them off at the top of the station approach and then carry on down Fishergate.’ The Guides delightedly waved to people as I drove along the crowded street to the station, and another policeman told me where to stop. After hasty goodbyes to the girls, I continued past the station, away from the crowds. Later, I learned that one of the station staff, recognising Girl Guide uniforms, very kindly took the girls onto the platform where the Queen’s train was due to arrive. The Queen actually stopped to speak to them, asking where they were from and why they were visiting England – a very memorable ending to their international camp. Meantime, I was frantically trying to find my way out of the town, avoiding all the streets which had been closed to traffic!

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The Scariest Night of the Year by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

 https://www.bookswelove.com/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

https://books2read.com/Romancing-the-Klondike

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

https://books2read.com/Rushing-the-Klondike 

 

 

It is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

My friends and I are trick or treating

When suddenly we hear.

 

A screech and a shriek

And out of the sky

A witch on a broom dives

At my friends and I.

 

We duck and we scatter

Consumed with great fear

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

“Don’t be afraid” she cackles.

“I’ve only come to see

If you want to go flying

On my broom with me.”

 

We stare at the witch

Not sure what to do

Her hat is all black

And her dress is, too.

 

Her nose is hooked down

With a wart on the tip

But there’s a gleam in her eyes

And a smile on her lips.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” she says

When we still hesitate

“My name is Kathy

And I don’t have time to wait.”

 

We look at each other

Then without any frowns

We nod and we grin

And jump up and down.

 

“How will we fit?”

I ask skeptically

For the broom is too short

To hold us all perfectly.

 

“Just hop aboard,” she crows.

“And you will see.

Climb one at a time.

Right up behind me.”

 

We all leap on easily

There is plenty of room

For the handle grows longer.

It is a magical broom.

 

When we are all settled

She gives a laugh and a hoot

And up into the sky

All of us swoop.

 

We zig through the buildings

Of the lighted downtown

We zoom up the Whitemud

And then back on down.

 

We stop at Fort Edmonton Park

An historic place that is so vast

The board sidewalks, the steam train

The covered wagons of the past.

 

There is a Ferris wheel

And a merry-go-round

With lots of pretty horses

Going up and down.

 

Kathy calls out with delight

“On to West Edmonton Mall.”

And with cheers and shouts

We whizz through the halls.

 

The stores are all decorated

The children dressed in creepy gear

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

We streak through the night

Down to the Edmonton zoo

To see the zebras and lemurs

And the pelicans, too.

 

But instead of the tigers

The camels and gibbons.

There are zombies and ghouls

And skeletons and goblins

 

They stretch and they reach

They lunge and they grasp

Trying to catch the broom

While my friends and I gasp.

 

But Kathy the Witch

Laughs out with glee

As we dodge and we dart

And get ready to flee.

 

“Come back, come back,”

One of the ghouls bellows.

“Yes,” pleads a skeleton.

“We are really nice fellows.”

 

Kathy turns the broom

As we cringe in fear.

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

“Ah, ha,” yells the goblin

And as we fly by

He scrambles to reach us

But Kathy stays too high.

 

“Nice try,” she chortles

And she waves goodbye

As we fly safely away

We all give a sigh.

 

“Where are we going now?”

I ask, looking around.

Then I see we are arriving

At our favourite playground.

 

My friends and I laugh

As we dip and we glide

Through the net climbers

And backwards up the slide.

 

We loop de loop

Holding on tight

Zagging through the swings

As we enjoy the night.

 

“On to your school,” Kathy calls

And we head on our way.

Flying to the building

Where we spend our days.

 

The doors swing open

Letting us in

We swoop down the hallway

Making a din.

 

Our teachers jump sideways

As we draw near

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.

 

The flight finally ends

Kathy the Witch slows her broom

We all climb off easily

For there is plenty of room.

 

“Good night, my dear children.

It sure has been fun.

But I have to go now

It’s time that I run.”

 

“Thank you,” we call

As she flies out of sight.

We look at each other.

Wow, what a flight!

 

But our bags are empty

So to a house we scurry

All yelling trick or treat

We really have to hurry.

 

Someone opens the door

Their face full of fear

For it is Hallowe’en evening

The scariest night of the year.