Tag Archives: music

RE: anxiety’s a bitch but I don’t want to be whinging too much about it because it could be so much worse off, so here’s a dumb thing I did instead

The current state of the world getting worse and worse with every passing minute + some personal comedowns and lingering paranoid afterthoughts + just the usual unreasonable brain dysfunction fuckery have really got my anxiety spiking up to unbearable extents lately, so here are some random practice gouache animals I painted last night in an attempt to zone out of reality and keep myself distracted for a couple hours.

Well I mean, they’re supposed to be animals but I don’t really know how to properly draw any sort of creature outside of Pokémon species and Animal Crossing villagers, so they’re more really closer to vague, blobby, bastardised approximations of what may or may not be IRL animals or just completely made-up ones at this point, soz who knows. I obviously couldn’t be arsed halfway through making some of these and that’s why they look like they crave the sweetest release of death but oh well :^) 20 internet points if y’all could tell which ones those were (surprise!! t’was actually all of them!! jk but not really). I think the bee looks the best though, I did love making those fuzzy textures and translucent wings and ah heck maybe I just like bees a lot anyhow, bzz bzz. Also, slightly off-topic but my poor sketchbook is falling apart so much that it’s basically only held together by crude bits of washi tape at this point and I only have less than ten pages before I finally fill it all up and wow I reeeeaaally need to purchase a new one at the earliest possible convenience. Hopefully a better quality one that won’t buckle too much if at all under my constant art supply abuse???

Anyway, I digress. I’ve also found that listening to instrumental piano music greatly helps to calm me down—as much as I do adore electric guitars beating me up with crunchy distorted djent riffs, extreme nonstop drum snares and blast beats, and spaghetti bass strings tuned lower than hell itself whilst the vocalist with a voice of fifty tortured lovecraftian monsters shrieking in unison beckons me on to get the fuck up and disrespect my surroundings, bless that heavenly beautiful-sounding instrument as welland I listened to the 0124 album by Hiroko Murakami while making these (along with some soul-cleansing classical pieces by Debussy and Ravel, can’t go wrong with those ofc). And if all else fails, I pretty much just make a nice fresh mug of lemon green tea and nick some biscuits off the grocery bags and then afterwards proceed to curl up and bury my face in my sleeping cat’s soft warm tummy for a couple minutes and quietly yell about uninteresting trivialities until I either start to feel better or simply pass out from severe exhaustion. As a matter of fact, I think that may hit the spot, so ta and goodbye for now :>

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Filed under Prose

Trying to keep busy, bee ba boo bee~


Just a quick little timelapse video with some things I recently made. I know it isn’t the highest quality or a frigging award-winning cinematographic masterpiece or anything of that sort, soz. This was literally filmed with some natural 7 AM lighting, on my phone that was propped up on a haphazard stack of books and held together by a bit of kneaded eraser, and the entire setup was constantly in danger of completely collapsing altogether if I dared so much as to carelessly move my elbow. Which was all too terrifyingly plausible, judging by how fucking cramped this small table is already. And I forgot to lock in the focus before I started, so there’s a lot of dizzying blurry bits in there as well. Lastly, please pardon my fatarse hand constantly getting in the way as I hastily mixed in the colours.

For the artwork, it’s just your run-of-the-mill watercolour painting in my main cartoony style, just a quick scribble of two of my favourite people in the world looking all goofy and stuff. It’s actually a redraw of an old drawing I’ve had pasted in my journal for over a year now, hence why the paper size (btw I’m using Fabriano paper, cold pressed, 25% cotton, 200gsm) is half as small than what I tend to usually work on. Speaking of, I’ve also had my dearest Sakura Koi set for a year now and though a bit stubborn and chalky at times, this thing is still holding up like a true champ despite all the relentless abuse I put it through and I’m rather fond of it ahah. Anywhozzles, this piece is so far away from completely done—there’s still about a thousand layers to go (though not as much as the fancy schmancier portraits thank beelzebub, those ones are honestly a headache and a half smh), but it took me maybe thirty minutes to pencil in the initial sketch and finalise the lineart, and about ten minutes to lay down these initial flat colours. I also didn’t pre-mix my palette beforehand—in usual Allen fashion—and it’s kinda hella messy for now, but it wouldn’t be my art if it wasn’t fuck-all!!! I kinda have half a mind to film the last end stages and timelapse that as well but I guess we’ll see about that…?

As for the track, bloody hell, it took way longer than the actual artwork itself. Like way, way, mikey fuckin waaay longer. Maybe a couple hours, give or take??? So firstly, I threw together a quick lofi beat with a nice looper (i had way too much fun with the filter and gater here can y’all tell), then it came to figuring out what sound bite I wanted to sample (ofc i settled with one from a metal meme video), then extracting the sample from the aforementioned video and setting the right bpm and key. And then I had to arrange the various elements I had and add some effects; first to the vocal samples, then to the additional piano and midi audio, and then finally to the overall track itself. Which also meant that I had to personally customise the fx pedals, which took some fiddling with and figuring out as well since I don’t really know jack shit about music production. But in the end, I settled for a bit of tremolo here and there on the sound bites (but not too much as to be blatantly overpowering), added some slight distortion and spacey reverb for that nice ambience, upped the gain and boosted the bass for an extra vintage ethereal vibe, and included just a smidge of compression to reduce the audio peaks and make it sound a lot more cohesive altogether. Added one last CD quality preset mix for the final mastering and boom, this piece of shit for an end product!! It’s really not the best one I’ve created so far. Or at all, by any other criteria. It’s honestly kindergarten-level simple and very stripped-down compared to my other few WIP projects and I wish I could’ve added just a few more elements to make it truly stand out—but then again, the former took days and days of relentless editing and this was thrown together in about five hours so that has to cut me some slack?? Idk but yo my fire asf mixtape be coming out soon for only $69.69 on bandcamp pls support this starving artist jk

I had no idea how much of that dumb rant even made sense to anyone at all—but long story short, I made some okay art and music thingies, they were really fun to make, I’m quite happy to waste my time with learning cool stuff that maybe doesn’t feel like too much of a waste, and I don’t really have any friends anymore nor nearby people who’ll even give half a damn about my random hyperfixations so I’ll just incessantly overelaborate about it on here instead??? That’s all thanks for coming to my TEDx byeee

Update: seven or eight not-so-quick glazes later, here’s how it looks with the flat colours fully blocked in, and then it’s finally detail and shadow time :’)

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Filed under Other stuff

atonal

you’re just

n o i s e

you open

your lips and

monsters

crawl out

vile creatures

while they smile

and daffodils

bloom from

their dimples

a symphony

of synesthesia

those pretty

little strangers

and you’re stuck

singing—or

is it shrieking?—

another out

of tune lie

convince your

throat to try and

convince your

mind to die

you can study

all you want but

if the notes

don’t fit you right

then maybe

an unscholarly

failure is all you

will ever be

because nobody

wants to listen

and no ears

need to bleed

i think your voice

is better off

simply humming

soundlessly, so

that no one

will ever hear.

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Filed under Poetry

Dear Mexican Bean :^)

Voice like an angel wandering lost in hell

Indelible words that cut beyond the teeth

Classic candidness, gentle grin left to tell

Thorns and trickery, twisting tines sweet

Over and past, your chase makes me well

Reprised recovery to sing me back to sleep

.

Feathers and caramel skin clash in shades

Underwater elegance, a bitter promenade

Every story you tell staunches the bleeding

Nevermind forever, momentum is fleeting

To every faded reminiscence we shall cheer

Enamoured by your honesty, a soul worn clear

Stay heartfelt honey, may the tides keep you near.

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Filed under Poetry

Dies Irae

“And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Quite frankly, I’m a bit jealous of people who have the casual nerve to fall in and out of love all the time—as if it was simply as bothersome as changing the frayed shoelaces on their trainers on their wornout trainers, or replacing old guitar strings because their sound has long gone dead from overuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but just;

How ever do they manage it?

I also desperately vie for that graceless, apathetic minuet—for your jaded body to queue into those monotonous cycles of halfhearted flirtations and shamefaced unspeakable nights, for your eyes to linger and your skin to prickle whenever some form of a chance draws near, to have your mind so far detached from your own overbearing sentimentality that when you crave, you simply act upon it. No love letters. No second thoughts. You don’t even have to know their name. Back into a I-V ostinato, humdrum and most times repetitive, but callously familiar all the same.

Meanwhile, I could barely make sense of all these dissonant polychords before another stray minor third or suspended ninth is forcefully thrown into the chaos, stacking up with clashing sharps and muddled tritones and making a colossal mess—and all of this coming from a singular source, no less? No consideration for modes or solfeggio? The absolute heartless anarchy.

Why must I be cursed to be a cynical romantic? A rational poet? A corrupted lullaby? I have discovered where my affections fully lay and have viciously fought tooth and nail for it; but only within myself, for myself, against myself. They need not know. They need not care. They need not suffer the awful way I have, only for nothing to come into fruition at the bittersour end, mainly because my terrified demons have their lacerating claws wrapped around every struggling limb, holding me back, screaming don’t you dare!

Aha, but what if? I hear another resolute little voice at the very back of my head interject, their rather coy tone heavily slurred with infatuated chemicals and heaven knows what else kind of drugged illogicalities. Mayn’t you take an actual chance first and maybe haphazard throwing a rose to your preluded hope, before you hang up your coat in defeat and throw it at your pre-dug grave instead? What if such an unexpected act of courage takes you where you needed to be and…more perhaps? What? If?

Courage, sugarcoated tongues call it. I call it blind and utter foolishness. Yes, I know that I willingly write about fate and destiny and the skinny scarlet threads potentially intertwining our two-syllable names at the A; but beyond that, I dare not stake my chances for a temporary happily-ever-after, nor do I refer to the gathering dust on my windowsill as fairy glitter. I know fully well what is beyond my means, and my means, in turn, know better than to continuously contradict me.

My palpitating heart and tremulous breaths, however, do not. For I have tried my untrained hand at a foreign chord inversion, and now all the blood has rushed into my skull and poured out of my gaping orifices. Everything feels so exhilaratingly t h i c k . . .

Well, curse me and my one-track mind, then. And hex/jinx/potion/burn-at-the-stake combination my asinine brain with its obsessions and hyperfixations and aspirations that focus solely on overblown proportions, it finds a shiny object that it likes and, akin to a stubborn, rabid magpie, it harshly grits its beak until one or the other shatters and even then, it does. Not. Let. Go.

Sooner or later, the hardheaded magpie will starve to death.

Honestly, I would sorely like to believe in cosmic mysticism. In soulmates and “the ones” and in pure, innocent, whimsical luck. I want to believe that if I close my eyes and daydream vividly enough, some of the pieces will slowly melt and start trickling right into the infinitesimal cracks of reality, and when I gasp awake, there shall be more shades of colour beyond my imagining—like the quaintly iridescent hue of their iris—waiting patiently in front of me. To live and to dream and yet to do neither

But in the end, no matter what I choose to believe in, I am still unfortunately a victim to reality. In reality I rightfully reside, and so in its rules I must abide—no matter how demanding, or unfair, or just plain disappointing. C’est la vie. So I must do my very best to stifle my raging adoration and love in secret—otherwise, must they think me so childishly petty?

Long ago have I ceased caring for physical intimacy, anyhow. For satiating a strange hunger that was never actually within me to begin with, like a rather curious augmentation dot in a measure that has long since ended. And I personally find it much easier to think without such fantastical denouements further clouding already-confused judgment. I simply seek another life to hold out to. Another arrangement to harmonise with mine in more pleasant overtones, and create a completely new melody once unheard of. I simply seek someone to understand with.

But even that, particularly during these trying times and ages, is already far too much to ask for. Even more unfortunately so than the former. I have found mine allure and yet lost it in the same clumsy risk. It’s affected me so much that even as I write this down, I can’t help but speak in constant musical metaphors. For I love in the same concentrated frequency as I devote my life to music. In unexpected eleven by eights and stiffer four by four cadences, in novelistic sonatas that dance around in dizzying triptychs and roaring otherworldly symphonies without a conductor present to keep it at bay; music and love and [?????], so tightly intertwined together, practically stitched at the smallest seams, inseparable, infinite, molto allargando. A trifecta of syncopated synergy tethered directly to my pulse. No wonder it is absolute agony whenever I attempt to pull one away from the other.

But music, just like everyone and everything else, desperately desires resolution. Life rarely ever offers one.

So, where do I go from here? I am hopelessly stuck tapping my fingers along to a singular timbre, and since I know all too well that there is no other exact same (or even similar) intensity nor perfect pitch that will ever come close to matching this one, I chose to deafen my entire hearing instead. There shall be no more lighthearted serenading melodies or serendipitous harmonies playing in bloom after this cantabile. I have completely given up trying. I am simply far too tired of it all to even bother anymore. I just want to get over this reckless charade and move on with my life. Better to have nothing than too much, one supposes.

Ah, to be young and in love. I quite feel as though I barely even fit in one category anymore, and yet I still vicariously persist in the other; like an octogenarian layman nearly drowning in the same river many times over the course of their entire four decades of living, whilst somehow vainly hoping to catch a pretty feathered dove. Existence is admittedly rarely too dull—but it is, however, messy and pointless and full of cacophonous noises and obnoxious plot holes. That’s what makes it exciting. I’d very much rather be bored to death.

So tell me, how does one love if they do not know how to—and do not ever want to? How does one get rid of love when this exhausted cliché has nothing left to give, yet invisibly clings on to them like an unpleasant earworm just to suck them dry and make their stomach feel relentlessly sick? And how does one ridiculously fall prey to love over and over again and still keep crawling back for just one more bruise—when I myself have already stretched out every aching muscle, squeezed out every drop of vital liquid, and fractured every bone in my abused and protesting body just to get rid of one person, like a frenetic rondo without decrescendo???

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps the primal survival of our specie deems it necessary. Perhaps I am simply fucking weak.

Truly, I am not jealous of most people’s normal ability to let themselves loose and dive headfirst into everything at an uncharted whim. I am only ever jealous over my own lack of self-control with my incessant, irrational, one-sided reverence; though the mercurial world’s unpredictable rhythm pushes past like a steady heartbeat as it constantly heeds me to move on. Move on. Move on.

If only I were more human than that.

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Filed under Prose, Valentines Poetry

Cathexis

It’s really nice, to simply throw myself into a pastime I enjoy and completely forget what it’s like to be worryingly unproductive and incompetent, and be someone else somewhere else, even for just a few hours. To do stuff a little more flawlessly without even realising how much I’ve already learned from past experiences, and how much I still have yet to learn. To finally apply everything I’ve been constantly struggling with for a good several weeks and months and years altogether and somehow have it all make sense in the end. Or some semblance of sense, at the very least. Anything counts for something.

That last part especially, it greatly baffles me—how much of it makes fucking sense. When it finally does. Even when it doesn’t. When I’m engrossingly locked and loaded on the various compositions, as I’m fully losing myself in head-spinning analysation and connecting odder theorems together, when I put bits and pieces of the faintest memories and deeper information into something more coherently vivid, and pick apart a familiar, creative medium that I have dearly cherished for years to its very rivets for my own personal means and interpretation, it just feels like everything makes sense to me—and that applies not only to the thing I’m meticulously looking into, mind you.

Fuck the meaning of life. Fuck irrational anxieties and peer pressures and growing up. Fuck the grander scheme of the universe and all that cosmic existential bullshit. That doesn’t matter to me. This does. This matters. I might not, but this thing in front of me and my mind right now, does. And it’s all that ever will, until I inevitably exhaust it. When I do, I’ll save it away for another rainy day and find something else of its kin to indulge in; optimistic afterthoughts fluttering a little higher than piqued daydreams, determined pastel eyes set focused as clever words and neon motions burn incandescently behind it, dizzying exhilaration steadily pulsing through my veins and making my buzzed skin quietly shiver at the very thought of finally being able to explore different labyrinthine alleyways and discover strange new worlds behind closed doors with the skeleton key in my hand—and doing everything all over again and again without ever getting sick of the whole process. On to find better sights, a better place, a better time, perhaps.

This certain ardent feeling, rather specifically inexplicable and a million times more potent than falling in love and vicious depression and shallow, fleeting aftertastes of superficial happiness, I sure do hope to high hell that I never run out of it for as long as I’m breathing (if you may pardon the utter mawkishness of such a statement). Being myself. Being content. Being actually excited to live. Is that what passion is like?

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Misadventures in Sheet Music

Pardon this little ramble. But I have been attempting to figure out the part highlighted in red via sight reading alone (and with the help of my ever-resilient theory notes ofc, because I’m that incredibly thick and need some sort of handicap, otherwise I’ll just straight-out die) for the last eight or so minutes; and I’ve just figured out the key and barely gotten through the first three notes (or first chord, whatever the hell it even is) in the treble staff section, and already a monstrous headache is flaring up beneath my temples oh god my stupid brain cells are starting to break out with hives dear gracious spirit of brett and eddy save me from this consonant perdition pls ;-;

I don’t really know why I’m doing this when I don’t even have a piano to play it on anyway, ahahah. Matter of fact, acquiring said instrument might just actually help in easing my mind’s incessant troubles as I embark in such a futile quest. But I’m too poor for that shit and this is what happens when the internet’s being a dysfunctional fuckass (much like the person typing this, get roasted bitch) and I have nothing else better to waste my time on. But I just—I desperately need this skill. Somehow. For reasons. Not really for any useful nor productive reasons, but for reasons nonetheless. Alright. I can do this. I can do this. I have five and a half more pages of this. Christ wearing tights, someone stab me in the jugular with a violin bow to the beat of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. I can do this.

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Filed under Other stuff

sour patches

your words drag

filed nails across

a chalkboard, so

astride the music

.

that ebbs and flows

beneath your voice

a cascade of lullaby

when you dare sing

.

but you’ll never need

to be one or the other

terrible temper along

soft childish laughter

.

i so adore you and

your whim, for you are

never more darling

than you have ever been.

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Filed under Poetry

happy hour

IMG_20191102_205745848.jpg

cigarette smoke

hangs heavy in the air

dizzy dizzy daydreams

i know i won’t care

a drowsy companion

and blue drip on my lips

the world is way too loud

four minutes away from sick

the way the music throbs

like a toothache in my ears

blaring guitar against my grin

another round of shots and beer

maybe six more for the road

and another, just to melt away

like the ice between our shoulders

and the night that’s left to stay.

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Filed under Poetry

Impossible Year: Caramel

(Okay, so I was originally supposed to post a really intense and serious shitty creepypasta-esque story that I wrote about a year back, but since it’s in my computer and it’s being a complete arse that won’t let up, here, have one of the parts from a Panic! At The Disco fic that I’ve been working on for a while now instead. Since all of the past halloweek stuff I posted have been nothing but morbidly dark and really gruesome, we’ll have something stupidly wholesome to end the spooky month instead. Boom, plot twist, happy Halloween fuckers!!! 🎃)

OCTOBER 31ST, HALLOWEEN.

Every house in the block and beyond displayed scary decorations on their front lawn; of plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, carved pumpkins and other usual novelty spooky items. Squealing kids rounded the streets with their friends and parents, donning various colourful and monstrous costumes as they knocked on doors and yelled a cheerful “trick or treat!”, and teenagers held their own parties and dared each other to do crazy horror-related things that either sent them running away screaming, or laughing, or in most cases, both.

It was a festive night as usual, perhaps even more festive and rowdy than he’d ever witnessed in his entire life, but Jon Walker simply felt like he was getting too old for this shit.

He had just dropped a couple of fun-sized Snickers on the bag of a kid dressed up as a vampire slayer (“points to him for being a notch above cliche,” Jon wanly mused) and was heading back to his living room, a cup of store-bought coffee in one hand and the TV remote in another.

Nursing a headache, Jon tightened his shabby red bathrobe and sipped on his drink, grimacing slightly at the strange taste of…what was it that kids these days called it? Pumpkin spice? Yeah. Whatever the hell that meant.

He groaned as he unceremoniously plopped back down on the couch to continue watching a random B-list horror movie he found on Netflix. As soon as he pressed the play button, the TV immediately died and all the lights in the house flickered off.

“Great, just my luck.” Jon dryly thought, scratching absently at his unkempt beard. “This is so textbook cliche. Next thing you know, I’m going to fetch my flashlight in the kitchen and there’s going to be an axe murderer waiting behind the fridge to hack me into pieces.

Fortunately for him, there wasn’t anything of the sort.

Although, there was a translucent little girl calmly sitting on his kitchen counter, which definitely was not there before.

Jon recoiled back in shock, nearly spilling his lukewarm drink all over himself in the process. He blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes furiously, and determinedly pinched himself on the arm, all before cautiously glancing back at the apparition.

But instead of being gone, the ghostly child was still there, and this time, she was staring straight back at him.

“Oh.” She piped up as she waved softly, making Jon deliriously laugh. “Hullo.”

“Oh yeah no cool, how’s it going? Oh nothing much, just TALKING TO A GODDAMN GHOST.” He rambled on senselessly in reply. The small phantom, however, seemed mostly unfazed by his reaction, probably already used to seeing that sort of thing. She’d seen worse.

“Are you okay, mister?” She asked innocently, stubby legs swinging back and forth and occasionally passing through the closed cabinets. Jon paused for a moment to think about what he was going to do next, and sighed out as he finally decided to give in to the sheer insanity of it all.

“I’m sorry. I overreacted. Let’s start afresh.” He said, clearing his throat extravagantly. “So. What’s your name, kid?”

“…Nic.” The ghost replied hesitantly.

“Nic, sure, yeah, that’s a nice name.” Jon pleasantly appeased. “So. Nic. Why are you haunting my house?”

She blinked a few times before limply shrugging. “…Dunno. I’m bored. And I think I’m supposed to, I guess.”

“That makes sense.” Jon nodded sagely. “Do you like scaring people?”

All he got was the same blink-blink-shrug routine in reply. “Dunno. I guess. I know I’m not very good at it yet.” Nic pouted sourly. “The older ghosts keep telling me to practice some more and if I don’t, some dumb priest or whatever’s gonna send me back to hell or afterlife or something, like they even know if that’s a real thing, they’ve never been. But I just wanna go outside and play with the other scary-looking kids, honestly. I only ever get to do that once a year, and I’m not even allowed to.”

Her eyes began welling up with tears and she turned away stubbornly, trying to hide them from Jon’s view.

Jon had never seen a ghost cry before, least of all a child ghost. For sure, he could definitely check that off his bucket list. Or just throw away the damn thing because for sure at this point, he’d seen it all.

He set down his coffee cup on the counter and carefully approached the quietly-trembling Nic.

“Well, Nic, if you don’t mind, let me tell you a secret.” He began. Nic still had her face buried in her hands and didn’t move even as he spoke to her, but Jon could sense that she was listening intently, so he carried on.

“Here’s the thing I’ve learned. Sometimes, you don’t have to listen to mean old adults. We’re just really cranky and tired from doing a lot of boring stuff. But you’re still a child after all, and you’ve got a lot to learn, and heck, maybe one day you’ll grow to be the best damn scarer in this cul-de-sac and scare those ancient naysayers back to their miserable graves. But hey, if you just wanna mess around, go wild. You won’t get a lot of chances to do that soon, and honestly—what have you got to lose?”

Nic finally rose from her hunched position and was seriously gazing at him now, a wistfully curious look etched on her pallid face.

“They can take you out of the fight, kid, but they can’t take the fight out of you.” Jon concluded with an assuring nod, finding even himself impressed with his whole speech. “Now go out there and trick or treat with all the other youngsters and show those creaky geezers that you’re made of more than goopy ectoplasm and boring boo noises.”

He shone his phone screen down as he fumbled with his ratty robe’s pocket, and managed to fish a piece of hard mint out of it. Secretly picking some lint off the old candy, Jon handed it to Nic.

“Here’s something for a start.” He said with a casual shrug, “I know it’s not much, but…”

But to the ghostly child, it didn’t seem to matter at all; as the bright grin that grew on her face could have lit up the entire house by itself. She excitedly swiped the candy out his hands (“Note to self,” Jon wondered absently, “ghosts can actually eat candy?”) with a shrill laugh and went in straight for an unexpected hug.

Jon shivered madly at Nic’s hold. The sensation was like getting dunked right into a vat of liquid nitrogen. But he tried his best not to show his utter discomfort as he awkwardly patted her on the back, careful not to let his hand completely pass through her.

“That’s, uh, that’s the spirit.” He stammered out with chattering teeth, chuckling at his own pun.

“Thank you, mister!” She gratefully squeaked.

“You’re welcome. Now git outta here kid, yer bothering me.” Jon replied with a playful wink.

Nic simply nodded fervently, visibly filled with a new excited energy. She waved back once again and smiled the biggest smile a ghost could possibly ever have, before finally running on ahead of Jon.

He silently watched the otherworldly child as her glowing ethereal outline passed through the kitchen walls, and faded away into nothing. At that very moment, the lights flickered back on, but Jon didn’t even notice, still deeply lost in his own thoughts.

“Trick or treat!”

A giggling chorus of childish voices outside finally startled Jon out of his trance. Picking up his cold pumpkin spice drink (which didn’t taste so strange anymore) and the half-filled candy bowl, he walked to the doorway, sighed once, smiled the biggest smile a person could possibly ever have, and opened the door.

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Filed under Prose