This is something I wrote on Halloween. It’s not Halloween you say, it’s November 1st? Today was editing day, not writing.

Hilda awoke from her nap, a black smudge on the square of sunlight stamped on the Belvedere’s carpet. Her six whiskers, sprouting in spider-leg-like arcs from the wet pink edge of her nose, remained undisturbed by any smell. For Hilda, this was the eerie calm before the storm of baby powdered toddlers, three in all, barged in and assaulted her as if she were but a Slinky to be unwound by her tail. Today they were especially brutal, hopped up on candy and the anticipation of receiving more later this evening, dressed as their heroes, albeit with home-made “budget adjustments”. Steel and vibranium were replaced with cardboard. Swords became foam, if they didn’t vanish all together. Visions of horses and Helicarriers were downgraded to a red cart, but the triplets commandeered it with the same reckless glee from house to house. Hilda rode along, enjoying Bobby’s short, sugar-induced sprints in-between stops and the hard patter of his sneakers, painted red for his costume, on the asphalt. When porchlights popped on to guide trick-or-treaters like moths to the houses, the pile of treats had grown large enough to bury Hilda and draw out a mewl as the cold plastic rubbed against her. The youngest of the kids, Charlie, chimed in that his feet were tired, so he joined Hilda and the candy at the back of the Halloween procession; two children led the front, two parents pulled Charlie and Hilda along at the rear. Eyeing the candy, Charlie gorged himself, a contended smile forming under his glazed eyes as the procession went on.