There was a challenge today in one of the writing groups to write 1000 word flash fiction Halloween story. This is a true story. It happened a few years ago. (It was written in an hour – so it’s not perfect)
A True Halloween Creeper Story
Syd and I spent Halloween jogging in the rain. Our neighborhood doesn’t receive many trick-or-treaters, so this gives us a chance to see kids in costumes making their rounds. Sometimes the costumes scare Sydney; while dogs get the whole idea of doing crazy things for treats, they’re a little uncertain of masks and make up.
There are a lot of dogs in our neighborhood, which makes running difficult because of the social factor. The neighbors with friendly dogs stop and chat. So, toward the end, it’s more walk than run for us.
As I slow toward my own block, I run into Dan with his dog. Dan has a newfoundland; if the dog stood on his hindlegs, he’d be over six feet tall. A strong, powerful rescue dog, Dan said. “In case I ever need rescuing,” he joked.
“Where’s your wife?” The rain slowed to a sprinkle.
“Work trip. She’ll be gone til Saturday.”
“I didn’t realize her job required travel.” I’ve never seen one of them without the other. They walk their dog through our neighborhood on a regular basis.
Dan shrugs. “Yeah, once in a while.” His dog pulls him forward, and he yanks back. I smell the alcohol on his breath as he yells, “heel!”
Syd’s half the size of his dog, but the same color. She turns to look at him, even as his dog ignores him.
“What are you doing tonight?” Dan asks.
“Hiding from the kids. I didn’t buy candy.” I laugh.
“Oh, yeah,” he says as if he forgot it was Halloween. “You can hide at my house if you want. I have beers.”
I laugh again. “No. I wouldn’t want your wife, or anyone else for that matter, to get the wrong impression.”
He shrugs and almost loses his balance. It becomes apparent, he’s had more drinks than I first assumed.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s used to it. I do photography in my spare time.”
I don’t know Dan or his wife that well. I only know them from our run-ins when walking the dogs, a few moments spent here or there chatting.
“You’re a photographer, right?”
I shake my head, “No, just pictures of flowers once in a while.”
“Yeah, I can see that. I see you covered in flowers.” His eyes shine as the last sprinkles of rain hit the ground and he pauses to look at me.
“Uhm, excuse me?”
“I photograph women, models. I’d like to photograph you.” He gets that half smirk that I’ve seen on men in bars when I was younger. A last ditch sales pitch that’s sure to hit. They, like he, doesn’t realize how incredibly silly they look. Dan’s older, he’s heavier. He has the appearance of someone who indulges in too much of everything except self-care. His skin is ruddy, hair unbrushed.
“No.” I say. There’s another block before my house and he’s heading the same direction. I hope another neighbor comes out to say hello.
“It would be strictly professional,” he slurs. “I’ve photographed hundreds of women, thousands. I used to run a website.”
“A website?” He told me before he worked for the city; he’d retired early. I hadn’t believed that at the time, but didn’t care. Much like I don’t care about this conversation and I’d rather get to my warm, dry house and give Syd a treat.
He leans in, the scent of alcohol billows in front of us. “I don’t tell many people; it’s not something to be talked about in pleasant company.” He half laugh, half grunts.
I fall back a step, lean over to adjust my shoe laces. Maybe he’ll keep walking. When he stops and waits, I ask, “Does your wife know about the website and the photography?”
He shrugs again. The dog yanks at him and he yells louder than before. “Freaking, g’damnit, heel!” The giant, near panda bear, turns his head, seems to snub him, and pushes forward with less force.
Sydney slows down, lowers her ears, then she stays by my side as we start walking again.
“You know, I told my wife, it doesn’t really matter if we’re married or not. I mean, she could take one house, I could take the other. You know? Who stays married anymore, right?”
I see another neighbor, Jenny, coming toward us; I wave madly. She’s jogging with her little terrier, Fritzie. I hope she’ll stop, talk; I think, if she does, I’ll walk in the opposite direction with her.
“Hi, Jen!” I say loudly. She’s wearing her earbuds under her hoodie and I’m not sure she can hear me.
She waves, picks up Fritz and quickens her pace around us. I imagine she’s afraid of Dan’s dog. But when I see her sideways glance, I wonder if it’s more Dan that freaks out her. Suddenly, more things make sense.
“I could do the pictures very tastefully.” He half chuckles. “It’ll only be me; what are you afraid of?”
I decide to take the clear, hard line with him. “Well, I have children, and I’m a teacher. I’d be afraid to compromise my ethics and lose my job.”
We’re just a house from mine. I cut across my neighbor’s and my own lawn. The misty night has left my skin damp, but it’s him who makes my skin crawl.
“Well, if you know any young girls….” he calls behind me.
“I’ll be sure to warn them away from you!” I call back. Once in the house, I see him pause at the end of the drive, probably trying to make sense of what I said. I lock the door, turn out the lights, and give Syd treats; then we sit in the dark to watch someone a little less creepy, like Michael Meyers.
Auden, Hugo, and others woke at 4am
rest of my day. I’d have to change my thinking first – about sleep and the lack thereof. I value a good night’s sleep.
this. They wonder if I don’t care about my work. They think I’m mad for even considering it. There are some things I won’t change. But, so far, the editors who have asked for changes have asked for simple things like rewrite this sentence, change this punctuation. No one has asked me to make major changes to any piece I love.
Every beach is just a little different. Just as the light is, depending where on the planet you stand. Being there helps.
Ideas come easily to some writers, not so smoothly to others.
One night, crying over a tequila sour, the recipe came out in a drunken slur. Friends who sympathized turned for a single moment to make a note.
for many writers. Besides the littlest distractions causing problems for many writers, any stress weighing on a writer can keep them from being productive. One of the elements of stress is the inability to focus on anything else – it is the most distracting distraction a writer can face. Stress causes us to avoid things – things like writing!
Let it go! If it is a stress we have no power over that is the only answer. It will pass. Focus on the writing, that you can control!
Noreen Lace 
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