Normally,
around this time
of year, I
write mini-horror stories
and
terrifying tales of mysterious
doings and
bone-chilling, skin-crawling,
nightmare
fuel.
It’s a
tradition with me, of sorts.
I typically
get a kick out of the
macabre
around Halloween and
I think it’s
fun to write some silly
little story
about a haunted house or
cursed
carnival ride or a desolate
desert
highway.
This year
however, the fun, make-believe
chills of
Halloween seem to pale in
comparison
when the real world is
already far
scarier than any fictional
drama or
suspense my little noggin
can come up
with.
Rampant
sickness sweeping the globe?
Check.
Major Political
Unrest at home and abroad?
Check.
Maniacs,
fires, and global catastrophe?
Check.
Candy Corn?
Get bent you
monster.
Writing a
little bit of horror escapism seems
like a
wasted and futile pastime.
I know it
has value, but who wants to add
to the
real-life terrors right now.
The knife-wielding
killer is in the darkened hallway;
so what,
does he know the state of my 401K?
The real terrors
of getting sick and shitting myself
to death or
waking up in an ever more present dystopian
horrorscape
far outweighs any fictional misty moors of Scotland
and being
hunted by a blood-thirsty werewolf.
The real-life
human blood lust is all too much,
and makes
for a better horror story anyway.
Although,
who knows, maybe as we get closer to
All Hallows
Eve, I might find some inspiration and
crank out
some blood curdling twisted tale ripe with
Twilight
Zone inspired twists and drama.
But for now,
I’ll just watch
the Presidential
Debate tomorrow night and
clutch my
pillow close and pray that the
noise I
heard from under my bed is a mouse
and not
Tucker Carlson.
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