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black squirrels and orange acorns
The problem with me and dressing up for Halloween is that nobody who knows me can tell the difference.
Of course, the last time I just wore my everyday clothes this day, frequent strangers complimented me on my costume. So I'm wearing my only pair of jeans-with-a-fly, my only baby-doll t-shirt, and an actual bra, and attempting to tame my hair into something resembling stylish. Of course, the T-shirt was my mother's and has a math-team logo on it, and the jeans are some flares that once belonged to my sister, and the hair is hopeless, but it's the best I can do.
Dressing like this feels really strange. I'm so used to wearing my layers of loose drapery that I've forgotten how confining yet revealing clothing can be, like a panopticon. I'll take free and hidden any day, thanks.
If the weather stays nice and the numbers of wandering drunks aren't too bad, I shall probably change back into real clothes and spend the night down by the creek with a bell, book, and candle, enjoying the change of seasons. And carve an apple lantern like I have the past three years.
Meanwhile,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blackfall asked, nay, demanded, hallowe'en ficlets for her birthday. So:
Title: Ianitus
Fandom: None
Words used: Bone, bubble, wings, fur, crunch, candy, pale, veil, caramel, chill, web, dog, wither, double, nest, crawl, broom, nail, fragile, shiver, crackle, sway, doorbell, escape.
Not used: None on the list
Themes: Transformation, sublime/banal, locks, harvest, spoilage.
Word Count: 882
Summary: "Various sources tell us that the word janitor is derived (at base) from the Latin term ianus, which means doorway (or gateway, covered passage, portal). The proper form Ianus was anglicized to Janus - the God of Doorways, or the Gatekeeper. The term ianitus denoted the 'keeper' of a door or passage; the American Heritage Dictionary tells us that Saint Peter was referred to as the 'Janitor of Heaven' in his role as doorkeeper. " (The Custodian)
Note: Look at me try to write scary, and come out just bizarre!
Waiting at the bus shelter that morning, Frank found a cast-off cicada shell on the seat beside him, fragile and caramel-colored like the husk on popcorn. It wasn't a cicada year, and was too late in the season for them anyway; but the cast-off skin stood there, newborn and shiny, a single slit down its back where the grown insect had crawled out. He picked it up, curious, and slipped it into his pocket when the bus arrived.
He dozed off on the way to work, and dreamed of a girl with brown hair who, in the dream at least, he had known all his life, closer than a sister. She held the cicada up, and said earnestly, "Cicadas have little prickles on their feet, so they'll stick to things. If you wear one on your shirt your dreams will come true, see?" She showed him her chest, covered with dozens of clinging empty skins that wobbled as she moved.
At work, as he fumbled the closet keys out of his pocket, he found the shell, and amused, he stuck it on below his shirt pocket before he pulled out the dust mop and bucket, and quite forgot it was there until Mr. Roberts passed him as he was mopping the hall and said, "Schwartz, there's a bug on your shirt."
"Yes, sir, there is," he replied, surprised.
"Well for god's sake get rid of it! Damn creepy, I can't stand those sorts. . ." he muttered as he stamped by.
Frank watched him go, shrugged, then pulled the cicada off and dropped it. It crunched under his foot with a delicate sound like tiny bones breaking, and he swept the remains into the pile of dust.
Later, as he was sweeping Mr. Robert's office, he wondered to find another cicada casing among the dirt under his desk, but didn't think anything of it until he put his hand on yet another, nested among the dry rags above the sink in his closet. After that he started looking for them, cleaning in places he hadn't touched for months, the unused spots where nobody else ever looked to notice the dust and cobwebs swaying together in ragged veils under filing cabinets and in corners behind doors. And he found cicadas: by the doubles and dozens of them, crackling under his broom, more and more as the hours went on, with no place they could be coming from.
Pulling down a stack of old, forgotten posters that had been left above the cabinets in the breakroom since God knows when, he was startled by Mr. Roberts stomping in and barking at him, and yanked too suddenly, showering himself with dust and cicadas from above. Mr. Roberts, face even redder than usual, wanted to know why in hell he was messing about in here when the garbage in his office still hadn't been taken out. Frank thought it was only the dust still in his eyes that made him see a pale figure in the hall behind, and nodded, and mumbled, yessir, yes, I'll do that right away sir.
Mr. Roberts muttered something threatening about lazy useless employees and jobs while sitting down heavily in one of the chairs. Frank tried to be invisible as he quickly swept up the mess he'd made, and tried not to listen as Mr. Roberts kept cursing to himself, pressing his right hand against his side, panting a little. Frank made his escape as quickly as possible.
Later, mopping the hall outside, he noticed that the breakroom light was still on; Mr. Roberts must not have left yet; if he was silent for a moment he could hear breath and whispering still inside. He shivered and moved on as quickly as he could, hoping he had not been noticed.
At the end of his shift, he'd washed up and locked his supplies back in the closet, hanging it on the nail for the next time, and he noticed the breakroom light on again; but now, no matter how still he stood, there was no sound from inside, no hint of life. He pushed the door open to flick off the light and saw that Mr. Roberts was still there, but no longer panting; his red face had gone purplish and blank. Frank stood there a moment, then bent, and found under the chair the last cicada shell, rounded and translucent, delicate as a soap bubble. It balanced perfectly on the crown of Mr. Roberts' head. Then he turned, leaving the light on and carefully closing the door behind him but not locking it, and caught the bus home.
Walking up the stree, he was followed along the fence by the neighbors' annoying little dog, fur damp with dew, until he gave it a bit of candy he'd found in his coat pocket. There was a cicada standing over the doorbell of his apartment, just emerged from its pupa, its new wings shrivelled by the too cold air; it shrilled angrily at him when he tried to unlock the door.
Of course, the last time I just wore my everyday clothes this day, frequent strangers complimented me on my costume. So I'm wearing my only pair of jeans-with-a-fly, my only baby-doll t-shirt, and an actual bra, and attempting to tame my hair into something resembling stylish. Of course, the T-shirt was my mother's and has a math-team logo on it, and the jeans are some flares that once belonged to my sister, and the hair is hopeless, but it's the best I can do.
Dressing like this feels really strange. I'm so used to wearing my layers of loose drapery that I've forgotten how confining yet revealing clothing can be, like a panopticon. I'll take free and hidden any day, thanks.
If the weather stays nice and the numbers of wandering drunks aren't too bad, I shall probably change back into real clothes and spend the night down by the creek with a bell, book, and candle, enjoying the change of seasons. And carve an apple lantern like I have the past three years.
Meanwhile,
blackfall asked, nay, demanded, hallowe'en ficlets for her birthday. So:Title: Ianitus
Fandom: None
Words used: Bone, bubble, wings, fur, crunch, candy, pale, veil, caramel, chill, web, dog, wither, double, nest, crawl, broom, nail, fragile, shiver, crackle, sway, doorbell, escape.
Not used: None on the list
Themes: Transformation, sublime/banal, locks, harvest, spoilage.
Word Count: 882
Summary: "Various sources tell us that the word janitor is derived (at base) from the Latin term ianus, which means doorway (or gateway, covered passage, portal). The proper form Ianus was anglicized to Janus - the God of Doorways, or the Gatekeeper. The term ianitus denoted the 'keeper' of a door or passage; the American Heritage Dictionary tells us that Saint Peter was referred to as the 'Janitor of Heaven' in his role as doorkeeper. " (The Custodian)
Note: Look at me try to write scary, and come out just bizarre!
Waiting at the bus shelter that morning, Frank found a cast-off cicada shell on the seat beside him, fragile and caramel-colored like the husk on popcorn. It wasn't a cicada year, and was too late in the season for them anyway; but the cast-off skin stood there, newborn and shiny, a single slit down its back where the grown insect had crawled out. He picked it up, curious, and slipped it into his pocket when the bus arrived.
He dozed off on the way to work, and dreamed of a girl with brown hair who, in the dream at least, he had known all his life, closer than a sister. She held the cicada up, and said earnestly, "Cicadas have little prickles on their feet, so they'll stick to things. If you wear one on your shirt your dreams will come true, see?" She showed him her chest, covered with dozens of clinging empty skins that wobbled as she moved.
At work, as he fumbled the closet keys out of his pocket, he found the shell, and amused, he stuck it on below his shirt pocket before he pulled out the dust mop and bucket, and quite forgot it was there until Mr. Roberts passed him as he was mopping the hall and said, "Schwartz, there's a bug on your shirt."
"Yes, sir, there is," he replied, surprised.
"Well for god's sake get rid of it! Damn creepy, I can't stand those sorts. . ." he muttered as he stamped by.
Frank watched him go, shrugged, then pulled the cicada off and dropped it. It crunched under his foot with a delicate sound like tiny bones breaking, and he swept the remains into the pile of dust.
Later, as he was sweeping Mr. Robert's office, he wondered to find another cicada casing among the dirt under his desk, but didn't think anything of it until he put his hand on yet another, nested among the dry rags above the sink in his closet. After that he started looking for them, cleaning in places he hadn't touched for months, the unused spots where nobody else ever looked to notice the dust and cobwebs swaying together in ragged veils under filing cabinets and in corners behind doors. And he found cicadas: by the doubles and dozens of them, crackling under his broom, more and more as the hours went on, with no place they could be coming from.
Pulling down a stack of old, forgotten posters that had been left above the cabinets in the breakroom since God knows when, he was startled by Mr. Roberts stomping in and barking at him, and yanked too suddenly, showering himself with dust and cicadas from above. Mr. Roberts, face even redder than usual, wanted to know why in hell he was messing about in here when the garbage in his office still hadn't been taken out. Frank thought it was only the dust still in his eyes that made him see a pale figure in the hall behind, and nodded, and mumbled, yessir, yes, I'll do that right away sir.
Mr. Roberts muttered something threatening about lazy useless employees and jobs while sitting down heavily in one of the chairs. Frank tried to be invisible as he quickly swept up the mess he'd made, and tried not to listen as Mr. Roberts kept cursing to himself, pressing his right hand against his side, panting a little. Frank made his escape as quickly as possible.
Later, mopping the hall outside, he noticed that the breakroom light was still on; Mr. Roberts must not have left yet; if he was silent for a moment he could hear breath and whispering still inside. He shivered and moved on as quickly as he could, hoping he had not been noticed.
At the end of his shift, he'd washed up and locked his supplies back in the closet, hanging it on the nail for the next time, and he noticed the breakroom light on again; but now, no matter how still he stood, there was no sound from inside, no hint of life. He pushed the door open to flick off the light and saw that Mr. Roberts was still there, but no longer panting; his red face had gone purplish and blank. Frank stood there a moment, then bent, and found under the chair the last cicada shell, rounded and translucent, delicate as a soap bubble. It balanced perfectly on the crown of Mr. Roberts' head. Then he turned, leaving the light on and carefully closing the door behind him but not locking it, and caught the bus home.
Walking up the stree, he was followed along the fence by the neighbors' annoying little dog, fur damp with dew, until he gave it a bit of candy he'd found in his coat pocket. There was a cicada standing over the doorbell of his apartment, just emerged from its pupa, its new wings shrivelled by the too cold air; it shrilled angrily at him when he tried to unlock the door.
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Are you going to RHPS tomorrow night? ;)
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I've been sucessfully avoiding RHPS for twenty years now.
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mmm, sounds lovely. with (nearly) half of a moon, even.. it was either you or a character in mists of avalon who was commenting on the moon at the quarters being more interesting than a full moon or a new moon.. happy samhain!
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--C