11/01/2026
November 1st
by Mark C. Scioneaux
The porch lights are off.
The pumpkin smile has sunk to a toothless frown.
Its candle out, its forehead caved.
Its jagged smile sliding down.
The store-bought cobwebs sag on the rail.
Torn by the night wind.
A candy wrapper scuttles past, the last reminder of sugary escapades.
The witches have folded up their hats.
The ghosts have returned to the bedsheets they came.
And every skull resorts back to plastic.
The dead who walked last night rest again.
The veil is stitched and made whole.
But underneath the grass, beneath the rot.
There’s something counting the days,
And grinning in the dark.
So box up the decor and coil the lights.
Sweep the porch and shelve the masks.
October will always find its way back home
To anyone who asks. 🎃
