Halloween Candy: The Good, the Bad, and the Just Plain Awful

  

Halloween Candy: The Good, The Bad, and the Just Plain Awful

Halloween is around the corner. For many, that brings to mind ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. For me, Halloween has always meant snack nirvana. Halloween is the only American holiday that isn’t associated with a nutritious meal. Who needs that when you have candy? When I was kid, my siblings and I would sit around after trick-or-treating salivating over delightful piles of Almond Joys, Snickers, Butterfingers, and Hershey Bars. Woe betide any house that doled out one small Tootsie Roll. They were obviously cheap child-hating SOBs who should have their house TPed. (I plead Not Guilty.)

Some Halloween treats have been around for a while.  

Candy Corn

Candy Corn was supposedly invented by George Renninger in the late 1800s. It was designed to look like chicken feed since half of Americans worked on farms. By 1900, it was mass produced by the The Wunderle Candy Company of Philadelphia. There are no niblets in candy corn, but there is corn in the form of corn syrup. Nowadays, different colored candy corn can be found at Christmas, Easter, and Fourth of July. I consider them a sacrilege. There are also a plethora of candy corn flavored ales on the market. If you drink enough you can forget the entire candy corn debacle. 

Apples

Although not technically a treat (let’s face it, they’re too healthy), they’re also associated with Halloween. Celtic folk used them for divination, so did early Americans bobbing for apples. Whoever snagged an apple from a big bucket filled with water, hands tied behind the back, would wed soonest. Whoever didn’t, drowned, and got his candy stolen. If you didn’t die from apple bobbing, there were Snap Apple Night parties. An apple was jammed into one end of a suspended stick with a lit candle at the other end. Participants tried to take a bite of the apple while the stick was spun around. Winners got a bite of apple, losers set their hair on fire. A forgotten hero of Halloween is Kraft Foods employee Dan Walker or as I refer to him, Saint Dan. In the 1950s he elevated the mundane apple to candy nirvana. While experimenting with excess caramels from Halloween sales, he melted them down and added apples. Ta-da. Vito Raimondi of Chicago, Illinois also deserves an honorable mention. He patented the first automated caramel apple machine in 1960.

 

The worst Halloween candies.

(Doling out these is tantamount to child abuse.)

 

Twizzlers: Technically, they aren’t a candy, but solidified wallpaper paste.

Hot Tamales: Wallpaper paste flavored with cinnamon.

Necco Wafers: Wallpaper paste scraped from the shoes of employees at the wallpaper factory and pressed into disks to punish children.

Life Savers: The worlds most boring candy, also dangerous to your mental health because they prompted the Aussies to make a flavor called musk, not to be confused with musk sticks which, apparently they also savor. Both are equally disturbing.

Dots: The only thing they’re good for is to freeze them and use them as ammo in blow pipes.

Circus Peanuts: Seriously, who eats these? I once owned a dog that ate everything including cat poop from the litter box and he buried Circus Peanuts in the backyard.

Tootsie Rolls: Only if you want to be known as the cheapskate of the neighborhood and have your house TPed. (I plead Not Guilty again.) 

Serious about trick-or-treating and want to make tracks to the state that doles out the best candy? Check out this  interactive map from CandyStore.com

  

Free on Amazon: The Rules for Lying, Big Easy Shaman Series Book 1

 

The Rules for Lying 

Big Easy Shaman Book 1

by L. A. Kelley

FREE Sept. 15, 16, 17, 18, 19

Magic isn't for sissies

 

WARNING: No good comes from a book with magic, mayhem, theft, murder, sass talk, demons, animals committing felonies, gleeful revenge, and bad things happening to good people for no particular reason. This story won’t encourage good habits and probably fine tune bad ones. The only lesson learned is don’t lie until you know the rules.

Life in New Jersey is tough in the Great Depression, but teenager Peter Whistler has an exceptional ability to lie. He hones his talent, convinced it’s the ticket to easy fortune. He certainly doesn’t foresee the arrival of a murderous conjuror with mysterious designs on a little blind girl named Esther. Drawn into a nefarious plot to unleash a demon, Peter leads Esther and an enchanted terrier on a desperate escape to New Orleans and meets Amelie Marchand. Like all well-bred Louisiana gals she’s trained in deadly martial arts, but with a murderous stepmother, Amelie has troubles of her own. Peter and Amelie’s one chance for survival is to head deep into the bayou and seek help from a mad shaman known as the Frog King.

Welcome to an alternate 1930s where both jazz and magic fill New Orleans’ air. Can a little luck, mystical lies, and a dash of Cajun crazy help Peter harness the power to kill an immortal demon? If not, the Depression will be a picnic by comparison when hell arrives on Earth.

Excerpt

The Grimaldis huddled over a piece of paper. Mr. Grimaldi looked up and cleared his throat. “Everything is in order. The carriage house suited you?”

Pike slid an envelope stuffed with cash across the tabletop. “Yes. It was private and exactly as described. We have a deal.”

Mrs. Grimaldi snatched at the bills with undisguised greed. “We wouldn’t do this, you understand, but the Feds raided all the local speakeasies. Our best clients shut down. Times are tough.”

Mr. Grimaldi scrawled a signature on the paper and handed the pen to his wife. She added hers, and then Pike tucked the paper in his pocket. “You needn’t be concerned about the girl.”

My ears pricked up. Girl? What girl? If Pike meant Mrs. Hart, the doctor needed to get his own eyes checked.

Mr. Grimaldi shifted in his seat, a flush tinting his fat cheeks. “People might get the wrong impression if the arrangement is discovered. You understand—they don’t realize our actions are for her own good.”

I sucked in my breath. Mr. Grimaldi lied big time.

“Don’t worry. No one will ever find out.” Pike’s voice was as cold as midwinter ice.

A teensy doubt jabbed at my mind that this had to do with gangsters, but I brushed it roughly away. Pike and the Grimaldis rose from the table. I darted from the window and ducked behind a tree right before the kitchen door opened.

Mrs. Grimaldi beamed at Pike. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to stop by.”

The dark man set the fedora on his head and snapped the brim over his eyes. “I’m quite satisfied. You won’t see me again.”

True.

For some reason, the truth shook me more than a lie. Mr. Grimaldi closed the door, but Pike remained on the stoop. The kitchen went dark and then a light switched on in an upstairs bedroom window.

I peered from behind the tree. Why did Pike wait? To rob the joint after they fell asleep? If so, I had no plan to stop him. I had half a mind to help.

The bedroom light flicked off and the yard went pitch black. One second…two seconds…three seconds…

A yellow beam danced across the door, and my throat nearly closed in terror. That was no flashlight.

The ray from Pike’s eyes narrowed and focused pencil-thin. The smell of burning wood drifted across the lawn as he etched a smoldering hieroglyphic of a flame in the middle of the door. The outline of glowing embers flared and then snuffed out. Pike stepped back from the stoop. He paused for a moment as if to admire his handiwork and then sprinted down the alley.

Heart thumping, I darted to the door. My fingers stroked the spot where I last saw the little flame. The wood was still warm.

I snatched back my hand. The wood now blazed hot, more scorching by the second. The glowing outline flared to life again. A spark shot out, soared overhead, and landed near the chimney. Patches of shingles exploded in flames.

A long thin spark slithered from the symbol, a fiery snake writhing toward the keyhole. Without thinking, I reached to sweep it away only to jerk my fingers from the scalding heat. The spark slid into the opening. With a roar, a curtain of fire engulfed the downstairs windows.

In a panic, I banged on the door. “Wake up! The house is on fire!”

A thick choking cloud of smoke billowed under the doorframe, and I staggered back in a coughing fit. In a blink, the first floor was an inferno. How did the fire spread so fast? Mrs. Grimaldi’s terrified screams cut through the crackling fusillade of flames.

Blistering heat drove me across the yard. The panic-stricken face of Nico Grimaldi appeared at the bedroom window struggling to open the sash.

Crrrack.

The wooden supports inside the house splintered and gave way. Mr. Grimaldi vanished in a thunderous crash as the second floor collapsed on the first. His wife’s screams cut off.

Multiple sirens wailed in the distance. I stumbled down the alley as hot cinders rained from above. Embers lit on my clothing, and I slapped them away. The Grimaldi house was now a nightmare of hellfire. I flinched as the outside walls caved in with a deafening roar.

The first of the fire trucks screeched around the corner. Cops would surely follow asking questions I couldn’t answer. As I ran across the street, the glare of a headlight caught me for an instant.

Tires squealed, and a man yelled, “You there, stop!”

AMAZON LINK

Black Panther was a Wuss Compared to Real African Women Warriors

Black Panther was a Wuss compared to Real African Women Warriors

Dora Milaje, the special forces of the fictional Kingdom of Wakanda in the Black Panther movie, were based on a real group of women warriors called Dahomey Amazons. Known for their fearlessness, they were frontline soldiers in the army of the Kingdom of Dahomey, a West African empire that existed from 1625 to 1894. Europeans who visited the kingdom in the 19th Century dubbed them Amazons after the ruthless warriors of Greek mythology.

The women of Dahomey played important roles in all aspects of kingdom life. Although the king had ultimate leadership, royal women made their mark in the world of politics, religion, and the military. According to legend, when King Akaba died in 1716, his twin sister Hangbe took the throne. Dahomey women were respected as hunters, so she recruited a female guard to protect her and the palace and the tradition of female soldiers began.

Each king would build a new palace next to his predecessor’s, leaving the former as a mausoleum. Although the last king of the Dahomey Empire burnt the palaces before the French conquered the territory, a section stands in Abomey. The bas reliefs show the Amazons used clubs, as well as muskets and machetes. There is also a horse’s tail attached to a human skull, a trophy brought by an Amazon for her monarch to use as a fly swatter.

A Catholic missionary named Father Borghero, a guest of the king, witnessed a mock assault on an enemy fortress. Three thousand heavily armed soldiers, barefoot and bristling with clubs attacked a series of defenses. A few, known as Reapers, were armed with gleaming three-foot-long straight razors, capable of slicing a man clean in two. The Amazons advanced in silence. Their first obstacle was a wall of acacia branches bristling with needle-sharp thorns forming a barricade 440 yards long. Ignoring wounds, troops scrambled to the top and mimed hand-to-hand combat with imaginary defenders. Then they stormed huts and dragged out a group of cringing “prisoners.” The king assessed their performance and the bravest received belts made from acacia thorns which the warriors strapped around their waists.

Recruiting Amazons wasn’t difficult. Most West African women lived miserable lives of forced drudgery. Amazons lived in the royal compound and were kept well supplied with tobacco, alcohol and slaves, as many as 50 to each warrior. When Amazons left the palace, they were preceded by a slave girl with a bell warning every male to get out of their path and look the other way. To touch an Amazon meant death. I’ve had mornings like that myself.

In the end, they were no match for French forces. In the course of four major campaigns in the latter half of the 19th century, conservative estimates are the Amazons lost at least 6,000 dead, and perhaps as many as 15,000. In their last battles against French troops, equipped with vastly superior weaponry, about 1,500 women took the field, and roughly 50 survived. The women were the last to surrender. According to a rumor in the French occupation army, the survivors took their revenge by covertly substituting themselves for Dahomeyan women taken into the enemy stockade. Each allowed herself to be seduced by a French officer, and after he fell asleep cut his throat with his own bayonet.

Most sources suggest the last of Dahomey’s women warriors died by the 1940s, but historians think it’s possible some survived long enough to see their country regain its independence in 1960. I like to think a few were in the crowd, giving one final war cry.

Rimrider is Free

 

The First Book in the Rimrider Adventure Series is Free on Amazon July 14, 15, 16, 17, 18

Orphan, pirate, spy.

Jane Benedict’s father orders her to memorize a mysterious code. Hours later, he’s murdered and Jane and her brother, Will, become wards of United Earth Corporation. To evade the company’s brutal clutches and uncover the meaning of her father’s last message, Jane leads Will on a desperate escape across the galaxy aboard the Freetrader smuggler ship, Solar Vortex. After swearing allegiance and joining the crew’s fight for freedom, Jane saves the life of young smuggler, Mac Sawyer, and learns her father’s code identifies a secret cargo shipment. The trail leads to the planet Rimrock and the massive prison complex of Golgotha. Undercover as a spy, Jane stumbles into a conspiracy that can spell doom for the entire Freetrader cause and the extinction of an alien race. Can she escape the prison confines and deliver a warning before it’s too late?

Piracy, intrigue, romance, space battles, and a daring rebellion from Earth wait on the galactic rim. Will Jane answer the call to adventure or is death for high treason her fate?

Excerpt

“We’re trapped in cargo bay Delta-120 with a sweeper. Do you read?” The only response was a hiss of static. Jane peered at them with anxious eyes. “My line is dead. Anyone have a signal?” Neither Mac nor Will’s com had reception.

Jane swallowed. “I don’t know if Doc got the message.”

Mac scowled. “We’re out maneuvered and outgunned and can’t wait around to find out. The smoke is getting thicker by the second.”

Hack emitted a muted tinny whine. “What’s his problem now?” hissed Jane.

Will yanked off the tarp and checked the readouts. “The weird signal’s back, stronger this time. Hack has a lock. It’s definitely coming from that thing on the catwalk with the sweeper.”

Mac’s gaze narrowed. “His rifle beats the cutter for long-range shooting. If the sweeper were at ground level, the odds would be more to my liking. I can sneak up on him.” He blew out his cheeks in frustration. “How to draw him out without getting shot is the problem.” He turned to Jane and Will. “You two wait here. When the shooting starts, make for the hatch.”

Jane grabbed his arm. “Mac, this is crazy. You’ll never get close enough. We need a better plan.”

Mac shook off her grip. “There’s no time. One of us has to make it out of here and go for help. Now run!” He broke from cover and darted around a loader.

The sweeper instantly spotted him. Jane watched in horror as the laser rifle fired a spread of explosive charges. A direct hit to the loader’s engine mushroomed debris into the air. Mac dove behind a cargo container abutting a rack of mech suits. He was unharmed for now, but had no safe way to advance any farther.

“What do we do?” said Will. “Run for help?”

Jane’s focus returned to the sweeper. With his laser rifle at the ready, he used his other hand to hurriedly work on the object at his feet, acting as if time weighed hard against him. Jane’s gaze narrowed. A person so consumed by a task would hate to be interrupted. As a matter of fact, the right interruption might make him boiling mad. Mad enough to drop his guard and take his attention off Mac.

Her expression hardened. “Will, I have a plan.” She explained in a rush.

Will chuckled. “I like it.”

“How much time will you need to get into position?”

“Thirty seconds ought to do it.”

“I’ll keep the sweeper busy.” Jane drew the cutter from her holster. With shaking fingers, she reset the controls for a tight beam. At this distance, hitting the sweeper would be a miracle, but the glow from the cutter made her a fine target for him in the dark. “Ready?”

Will’s face turned pale. “Are you positive Mac will be in position?”

“He’ll understand as soon as I start running. He knows how to shoot.”

“Yeah, but you don’t. Be careful, Jane. Promise.”

“I’ll make it back, Will. I swear. On three…one, two, go!” Jane dashed from cover aiming straight for the sweeper’s position.

Jane fired wildly, mentally counting the seconds. Her shots went way out of range. Although none landed anywhere near the catwalk, they drew the sweeper’s immediate attention.

Crackles of lightning ripped through the air as he returned fire. An energy blast hit near her feet, bubbling the metal deck plate. Jane dodged in panic, adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Close—too close. Don’t think! Run! Run! Run! Twenty more seconds…

Jane tore across the bay, darting through smoke, dodging flames. She veered toward the bulkhead aiming for the safety of a storage container. The back of her neck burned as if she could feel the laser sight zero in on her. A beam sliced the dark to her left. Jane sidestepped in a panic. She was in the open, no place to hide. The sweeper had her in his sights. A red dot centered on the middle of her chest. She looked into the face of death.

“Now, Will!” Jane shouted.

So intent on Jane, the sweeper didn’t notice a dark blob shoot up behind him. Hack’s claws clamped on the device at the sweeper’s feet.

Bllllleeeeeehhhhhh!

Will had raised Hack’s alarm to full volume, and an ear-splitting shriek echoed in the air. Startled, the sweeper spun in a half-circle in time to watch Hack disappear with the unit, diving into the smoky haze of the cargo bay.

Jane rammed the cutter into the holster and sprinted toward the rack of mech suits where Mac hid. Heavy footsteps ran across the catwalk and then pounded down the stairs. With a soft whir and an urgent bleh-bleh, Hack flew over her head and then dropped the device into Jane’s outstretched hands. She grunted with the sudden weight and struggled to hold on. It was much heavier than she expected. Within a few meters, her breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled across the deck.

Footsteps drew closer as Jane cleared the last of the storage containers. An agonizing ache shot though her side. Her legs moved as if strung by lead weights. Muscles in her arms burned with the effort to carry the device. Dead ahead was the rack of mech suits.

Mac was gone.

Amazon Link

  

Twisted Fairytales

Covid, inflation, gasoline more expensive than champagne? Wouldn’t it be nice if life was like a fairytale? The heck it would, not if you know the real stories.

Cinderella

Cinderella’s tale has been around for over 2000 years. There are hundreds of versions dating back to ancient Greece and China. The Disney cartoon is the fluffiest of all with Cinderella barely able do anything except smile idiotically no matter how badly she’s treated. In the Grimm version, her name is Aschenputtel and her slippers are made of gold, not glass. In the original French, Cinderella’s slippers were fur which may not be fashionable, but a heck of a lot more comfortable. In both versions, she’s not helpless and weepy like the cartoon, but rather a self-sufficient girl with witch-like powers. She creates a magic tree and has the ability to turn invisible and control birds. The wicked stepsisters allow toe and heel to be cut off to force their feet into the glass slipper. The self-mutilation doesn’t work, and Cinderella marries the prince. During the wedding ceremony, Cinderella commands doves to peck out her stepsisters’ eyes. Talk about Bridezilla.

Pinocchio

Oh, that silly puppet. Good thing he has the blue fairy to pull his fat from the fire. Hah. Not hardly. At the end of the original story, Pinocchio is being chased by assassins. He runs to a house, screaming for help. In an open window is a little girl with blue hair, instead of a fairy. Her eyes are closed and her arms crossed over her chest. A ghostly voice says everyone is dead in the house. Pinocchio begs her to open up anyway, but the little girl says. “I’m dead, too, and waiting for the coffin to take me away.” Pinocchio starts crying, begging the girl for help, but the window closes. The assassins grab him and hang him from an oak tree. The end. Ha-ha. What a delightful tale. It should be easy to get the little ones to sleep after that.

Wizard of Oz: The Tin Woodsman

The Tin Woodsman started out as a normal guy named Nick Chopper who made a nice living chopping down trees in the forests of Oz. After his parents die, he’s lonely and falls in love with a Munchkin girl named Nimmie Amee, but she won’t marry him until he builds her a better house. In the original story, his sweetheart worked for a lazy old woman who wasn’t happy about losing a servant. In later editions, the lazy old woman is a witch, who’s still not happy, so she enchants his axe. When he swings the axe, he chops off his leg, so he goes to a tinsmith to build him a new one. Then he chops off another one. Back to the tinsmith. Then an arm. Then another arm, body part after body part. This guy doesn’t give up and the tinsmith is raking in the dough. Eventually, the axe goes through his heart, and the Tin Woodsman can no longer love and forgets about his sweetheart. What a charming children’s tale.

Bambi

As a child, I loved Bambi, the cartoon. Then I found Bambi, the book, at the local library, and checked it out. Ye gods, that was a mistake. The author, Felix Salten, was an ardent hunter who killed over 200 deer in his lifetime. He cheated on his wife, stole from friends and lost their money. He also believed in appeasing the Nazis and wrote a delightful pornographic book about a child forced into prostitution. What a swell guy. In Disney’s version, nature is idyllic. In Salten’s version a fox tears apart a beloved pheasant, a ferret fatally wounds a squirrel, and a flock of crows attack the young son of Thumper, called in the book Friend Hare. He’s left to die in excruciating pain. Friend Hare’s wife has her leg ripped off and also dies. Bambi nearly batters to death a rival begging for mercy. What does sweet Faline do? She looks on, laughing. Faline has a twin brother, Gobo, who was injured as a fawn and healed by men. He returns to the forest and tells everyone people are swell. Bambi thinks he’s an idiot and mocks him. Turns out he’s right. One day, they spot humans and poor Gobo goes out to say “Hi.” Naturally, he’s shot. The others run away to his wailing death shriek. In the end, Bambi knocks up Faline and then deserts her because stags don’t help with fawns. I wonder why Walt heavily edited the book?

So, the next time the kids ask to be read a fairytale, suggest a violent video game instead. It will leave them with fewer nightmares.

The Rose Stone: A New Release Now on Amazon

 

The Rose Stone

by L. A. Kelley

Jessica Rose Stone has a death sentence, an inoperable brain tumor. As the muscle tremors and pain intensify, an alarming new symptom develops, a rose-colored haze invades her vision. With it, comes the captivating hallucination of a world under a dire threat, protected by a magic crystal called the Rose Stone. Her doctor warned vision changes signaled the beginning of the end, but this Commonwealth of the Rose issues a compelling call. Jess dares to answer and finds a warrior named Griffin engaged in a struggle with an enemy called the darkling, a mysterious being who takes a chilling interest in Jess. With the help of Griffin and his warbird, she evades the darkling’s assassins and discovers her connection to the Commonwealth of the Rose runs deeper than mere illusion.

Tossed back and forth between two worlds, Jess battles the darkling in one reality and a tumor in the other. Her struggle to determine her true place grows as does her attraction to Griffin. Is the call of the Rose Stone a dream, a hallucination, or will it set her heart on the path to something greater?

Excerpt 

The sunlight from the window shifted. Color surrounded me, vibrant pink hues deepening to brilliant crimson, spilling across the painting, brightening the rose. Not so much a haze, but a glowing aura, blocking out everything but the rose, setting the petals ablaze with color.

“Perfect,” I whispered. Drawn by the extraordinary effect, I clasped the palette knife tight to my chest and with my other hand touched the canvas. Spinning, whirling, falling into the depths of the crimson light, I lost feeling in my body but wasn’t afraid. If this was death, it was kinda fun. My eyes closed.

“Oof!”

I hit with a thump, whooshing the air from my lungs, then sucked in a breath and groaned. I was no expert but assumed death didn’t come with a hard landing. I must have passed out and hit the floor and cursed my stupidity. If I were bleeding, I’d have to clean the mess before Melanie arrived or I’d never hear the end of it. I rubbed a hand across the floor, hoping for the touch of concrete and not a pool of something warm and sticky. Instead, my fingers entwined in a soft, springy mass.

“What the…” My floor had no carpet, and this felt like grass. My artistic air freshener had disappeared, too. Lush floral notes replaced the omnipresent smell of paint and turpentine in the loft.

I opened my eyes. My jaw dropped. “Not possible,” I whispered.

The loft had vanished. I lay face up in a glade, surrounded by thick piney woods, one hand clutching the palette knife. Faint pink tinted the foliage, but it vanished as I scrambled to sit. Overhead, a sky with ominous gray clouds was barely visible between the heavy overhanging branches. A stiff breeze, rife with earthy forest scent, batted my cheek. My heart skipped a beat at soft chittering overhead. Leaves rustled as furry creatures scurried across tree limbs as if my sudden appearance startled them.

I staggered to my feet, gulping in a lungful of clean, fresh air, and gawked at the unfamiliar surroundings. This was deep woods and not the local park with manicured walkways. The weather report predicted clear blue skies today, but the gathering clouds overhead hinted at a coming storm. Brush and trees ringed the small clearing. Big trees. Not the local pines, but massive conifers with flat needles that looked as if they had stood for hundreds of years. I’d never seen such trees near my home. I’d never seen such trees ever. Nothing was familiar. I touched a trunk. The dream tree was eerily solid.

My mouth dried. “How can this be real? Where am I?”

Did hallucinations have clear scents and sounds? Shoot, why didn’t I ask Melanie more questions or grill the pharmacist about the side effects from those stupid pills?

Because you were afraid of the answers. How do you feel now about using denial as a treatment for a terminal illness?

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Kinda dumb, actually.”

I took a step and grimaced as a painful muscle spasm shot through my leg. I flexed my fingers and winced. They hurt, too. That much hadn’t changed. I still had the palette knife, so dropped it in the smock’s pocket. Convinced I had completely lost my mind, I placed a finger on my neck and didn’t know whether to be happy or rattled at the steady pulse.

“Okay. I choose to believe I’m alive, but something is very wrong with this scenario. Maybe it’s not a normal hallucination. I-I must have fainted and gotten a hard knock on the head. This might be a coma.” Panic flared inside me. “Calm down. Try to wake up.” I took a deep breath and shouted, “I’m awake now.” The vision of the primeval woods remained stubbornly in place.

A rumbling growl reverberated through the trees, and my heart raced. “All righty. Attracting attention might not be the brightest idea until I figure out what’s going on.”

The little animals overhead chittered again, but this time their conversation had a frenzied aspect. My arrival gave them jitters, but that sound caused wild-eyed terror. Branches shook as they dove for cover, knocking bits of leaves and twigs to the forest floor. In an instant, stillness reigned. Even the stiff breeze had dropped.

Cold sweat trickled down my spine. “Okay, Jess. I really mean it this time. Wake up now.”

Dried vegetation on the forest floor crunched under the weight of a large, heavy something lumbering through the woods. No more than fifty feet away came rustling brush and a low, rumbling snarl. Branches ripped apart as the ominous sound forged a beeline in my direction. Then the noise stopped, but the eerie stillness of the forest offered no comfort. The silence lengthened as if that something was waiting, listening.

Breath caught in my throat.

I took a stumbling step back and froze at the snap of a twig underfoot. “It’s a hallucination,” I whispered. “It can’t hurt me.”

Without warning, the heavy body pounded across the forest floor, rapidly closing the gap between us. Through the brush, I glimpsed a scaly hide. “Screw it. I’m out of here.”

I did an about-face and shambled in the opposite direction, cursing my legs. Why didn’t I remember to bring the cane into the dream world? The lurker in the trees followed, thumping steps drawing closer. I could almost feel hot breath on the back of my neck. Blind panic urged me faster, but I was slowed by a stumbling gait and thick foliage that snatched at my clothing.

Thud!

A heavy body landed right behind me, shaking the ground. Claws clamped my waist, dragging me to a halt and lifting me in the air. The self-defense class Melanie talked me into one summer rushed back. I struck out blindly with my fists and connected with something squishy. I grabbed it and yanked hard. There was a tearing sound and an inhuman bellow. The claws

opened. I tumbled to the ground and got the first good look at my attacker. A scream froze in my throat as I came face to face with a walking horror.

In point of fact, face wasn’t the right word.

 

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Spring starts with the vernal equinox, but what exactly is it? An equinox is when the sun is positioned directly above the Earth’s equator and the hours of daylight and nighttime are very nearly equal. It happens twice a year, spring and autumn. It’s generally accepted the vernal equinox is March 21 when the sun crosses the equator from south to north, but its iffier than you think. Sometimes it hits on the 20^th and, of course, spring only comes to the Northern Hemisphere. The Southern Hemisphere heads toward winter. Earth thinks it’s oh-so-special but every planet in the solar system has an equinox, which occurs when a planet’s orbit and tilt causes hemispheres to receive the same amount of light.

Although the equinox is thought of as a day, it’s actually only a moment when the Sun passes over the equator. For 2022, the Vernal Equinox happened on Thursday, March 20, 2022, at 11:33 a.m., Eastern Standard Time. This is not to say the first day of spring is set in stone. Bands of rogue climatologists roam the streets arguing the point. For them, meteorological seasons are grouped by months and based on weather and temperature shifts. They’ll argue the first day of spring in the Northern Hemisphere should be March 1. Don’t get in their way or they’ll slap you.

Spring is associated with an array of rituals marking the end of winter, often dealing with death and rebirth. The idea of a deity who perishes and is brought back to life is an ancient theme, predating the Bible. Easter, supposedly, derives its name from Eostre, the ancient Teutonic goddess of fertility, bringing light and renewal to the world. Eggs were hidden in her honor as part of fertility rites and, as she was also a moon goddess, her celebrations were held at the full moon closest to the Equinox. Eostre was symbolized by a hare, and by the 17th century in Protestant Europe hares were also symbolic of Easter.

Weird stuff about the vernal equinox

It’s the only day you can stand a raw egg on end.

Presumably, because of the Sun’s position in the sky, the gravitational pull on the Earth means that you can stand an egg up on end during the precise moment of the vernal equinox. Nope. The Earth’s gravity remains unchanged and balancing an egg can be done any day of the year, if you’re really, really, really bored.  

Egad! There’s no shadow at noon.

Only if you happen to be standing exactly on the equator.

Being outside during the vernal equinox can drive you bonkers.

The Sun moving across the equator has no effect on emotions. But Seasonal Affective Disorder plays a part in moods and may have a leftover effect before spring truly kicks in. The warmer days can also bring a touch of spring fever and strengthen the desire to get outdoors. Not to mention being cooped up because of Covid made us all a little nuts.

Take a trip to the gateway to hell.

Several myths have certain days in which a portal to hell can open and the devil can enter the earth. One is Halloween, but the other is the vernal equinox.  A cemetery in the town of Stull, Kansas, apparently has one of them. Since the 1970s, people visiting the cemetery on the vernal equinox report hearing disembodied growling, being grabbed by unseen arms, and experiencing amnesia. No reports on the number of liquor sales on that day is available.

So put that garland of flowers in your hair and dance around the maypole before that blooming botanical mess activates your allergies. Spring has sprung.