October’s Jack ‘O Lantern is still on the front porch, along with bales of straw and some witches who don’t know that Halloween is as faded to gray as the November clouds spitting snow down onto the not yet frozen land. Windows glow warmly. Smells waft across the yard to where I am hiding in the shadows.
My fate is sealed. It is blood November, a time of brutal murder on this farm and no one is safe. It has been that way for generations. All the other months of the year are cheerful and prosperous, but not November. Murder is in the air and forboding fills each of us, for we know that this is the time the monster appears, wielding his axe.
I’ve heard the tales all my life. Spring, the time for planting, for hope and belief in the future. Fall, the harvest and the fullfillment of promise; prosperity colors the leaves and clears the fields. October, the fright, the creeping dark and then November and the slaughter.
Soon the farmer will sharpen his axe and come for me. It is my end.
I hate Thanksgiving.