Ghost Stories
By: Kellen McAllister In the dawn of twilight there is a mound of candy stick bones. Inside they ache with stories. Made-up, turning, Real, Real, Real. Fireflies and fire sparks float through the air, mingling. You can’t tell which is which. In the summer evenings, everything falls quiet. Not winter’s silence, but soft cackling. Dark steeps in and light by light flickers on, Luring in phantom pale moths. Our tongues are covered in splinters of words. Sunburnt and strong we become our summers. In the night I read stories of magic so eerie That I can see the strawberry ghosts at the edge of the woods. Still, I eat the Persephone fruit. Some say the witching hour is midnight, but I know it is just after sunset when the sky goes from blue to black like a bruise being pressed. The bones rustle against each other, Clacking music with spring peepers and cricket chants, Trembling for their stories to be told, T...
