:B stars in "A Spooky Tale for Halloween" -- by Russell Block
:B captures children and places them within a dark sack. They look up, toward hairs cast along the evil chin of :B as has them for his grim indifference. From there, darkly sequestered in the sack the monster :B begins to draw strings on, the limit of light shutters away the horrid sights. From within, the children organize their fright and disarray to a caucus that, though without podium or a charter precept, organizes by way of taps within their chain to signal the next and nameless voice has the floor to relate their chilling tales. It was a day like any other, the first begins, when, through the trees, the branches covered a watchful devil. The speaker was picking strawberries in the country, two days gone, or three, or more, and, parting slowly, to :B that indifferent afternoon locked and into this sack was thrown. The lad was taken up as though won in marbles, for use in a future game those impossible limbs would play. Where :B was taking them, :B alone could know, for no consistent rationale, for the most unfortunate first, hammock for miseries upon the sack’s bottom, to the latest one, free of tangles atop the pile, could ascribe a motivation to :B nor fathom behavior rooting in its monster mind. The German wurst maker’s boy, in his lederhosen, some being oriental as some were of the Russian steppes, they evidence that :B is vorpal, or else :B cycles leagues by most incredible steps. From the front satchel of those traditional pants, this boy a toothpick finds, and cheers thread their scary bag. “Poke a hole,” they cry. “See if sights less dread than those features of the :B that haunt our dark predicament can be gleamed.” Slowly then, into the freshening air, a wooden point wins out and victoriously pierces free its length the canvas’ retaining weave. Circling, the least advantage widens, until, lashes and the threads co-mingle for the German boy to peer. Arctic abounds at a jogging clip. Seals flee into the surges, and polar bears lay out frightfully to paw their black decimals along the coat that everywhere matches them. Before they know, limbs co-ordinate, as one would check beneath a suspect bucket, a contortion so familiar to some when they were given pales and sent to labor at the well; but, pressed to where he had seen, the German boy can not circulate, for all his fear, to escape what results next. :B! He Screams! “The :B looks squarely and unhappily at me! By doom it sniffs me out! Ach, nein!” This plump morsel, a claw through the small hole roots after. By arm grasped first, the other attempting to clutch for dear life the beret of a Parisian with a fortuitous buzzcut, the whole child exits the brief rend. Falling to, :B the unthinkable glimpse the blunt teeth gnash. As they tumble toward, hands rathe, and with needle, mends this tear, indiscriminate of what children of the world obstruct the bright point and what gets looped under the neat handiwork. In the end, they are all once again secured, none escaped, no sight now discernible within their darkness. Somewhere, through :B and down its laughing gullet, into a nearby acidy bag, the German boy, son of a wurst maker, has become no more.
Some say :B is the jack-o-the-lantern. Some are under the impression this :B is the goblin superior, the one the moors of Albion bred, from plagues and fog, on which no sun had ever salved. One claims to know :B to be a laughing ogre in league with evils beyond imagining, a beast of lore known for eating children. Mostly, they think :B is the devil, Lucifer, Mephistopheles, or another outcast angel chartered by their parents for their white lies and disobedience. Frightful as the :B is, the :B is, the :B is, as :B too, or the various suppositions of :B are, more frightening in this season Halloween are those that do not read books. For what human understanding and value in experience could come of a mind that knows itself but poorly?