It's Not Halloween Today

A literary experiment by Joseph Salvatore Knipper

by Heather Gleason

I met the Headless Horseman

on a nameless road in Jersey

at dusk on November 3rd.

I said I much admired his work

but he was not to be outdone in flattery

dealing out compliments like candy

with a wink of his fiery eye

He asked if I had news of our confrères.

 “But, promise, no gossip,” said he

then closed his orange lips around his pipe

and smiled.

I told him that Spring-Heeled Jack's arthritis

was getting to him

so he only worked Sunday afternoons,

unless his chiropractor was available.

Scylla and Charybdis were retired,

but Medusa's agent had booked her a film

(the type that wins awards at festivals,

but no one watches).

The Count thought the election might go his way this year,

but Eastern European politics were notoriously fickle;

one might say there was a lot at stake.

Baba Yaga was now a grandmother—

(well, a hell-hound grandmother at least

but I suspect Marinka may have child in the oven.)

And dear Victor had switched to botany,

if you considered frogs to be vegetables.

Still, he was much less insufferable,

and occasionally remembered birthdays.

“But what of you?” I asked.

“How was your year?

Who was your best scare?"

But he just chuckled and shook his head,

"Have some mercy!" said he,
"I'm on vacation."

He produced a flask,

and we toasted repentant sinners—

watching the shadows tangle the road

as the sun slid sleepily into bed.

“Where will you winter?” asked I?

“Wherever men scared of the wrong things,” he replied.

Then, emptying his pipe,

he swung back upon his horse

and rode off into the brown night.