The Small Hours



The moon is full, the wind howls, and the typewriter clacks away madly on this new Beetlejuice project. For soon, will be the night of the blue moon and all the shadows, like crumbling graveyards and enchanted Halloween pumpkin patches. The scarecrow hanging up on a fence-post, and the ole’ barn-yard dance of apple cider and high-sugar Snicker bars.

Wait, what am I talking about? It’s not Halloween yet but high in the old farmer’s season of growth and fieldwork and sleepy rural reverie as the time shall grow ripe and the spirits will convene atop Mt. Beetle.

Really, just a pile of dirt and old sticks and tin cans and wrappers of every description– as death is neither neat nor clean but like the crumbling hand of a corpse– so much dust and dry-rout as being dead certainly ain’t a party, as far as anyone asks.

The two worlds of the hereafter were never meant to meet except on thos strange and unusual borderlands between midnight brooding and unwelcome day-break. Call it “the small hours” when ghosts rise from the ground in blood-stained wreaths and moan for a bit of attention.

To be a lost soul, seeking connection– as should we tide you over with an old Game Boy with one game, only– Tetris. Like the building blocks of maeloseums and the inheritance of endless dead time.

Lydia would go on car-trips through the winding green hills of Connecticut and wonder, as if “she wouldn’t be caught dead, there” with her parents as is it worse to be dead, or “merely hokey”? Lo, the mortification and don’t you wish you were here. Well, anywhere “but here”.

Does being dead give you superpowers? Or does it just remind you that “life sucks” and leaves you buried, anyway. There is no escape. And Lydia demands that we write some good scenes for her.

Will do, and we’ll be back again tomorrow.






The Small Hours

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