Ode to Candy Corn and How I love Thee

Candy corn, my sweet, you’ve gotten a bad rap.
People say you’re too sugary,
Too sickening,
Liable to make everyone fat.

But they don’t know what I know,
oh candy o’ mine.
They don’t know how tasty you are,
how delicious,
how you make me shine.

You see candy corn, I don’t think people understand you.
They don’t understand every color of your multi-striped brilliance
is one more level of delicious.

They don’t understand that one bite can heal a bad day,
a single taste can make one weep with joy,
and an entire bag can cause a hyperactive psychotic episode. Don’t ask.

Dear candy corn, I understand you.
I understand that you’re sweet and tasty,
Without slapping more fat on the hips and thighs,
Which really appeals to the sugar freak in me.

I understand that you’re a Halloween staple.
How can you have ghost and goblins posing as children,
and witches and werewolves running amok,
Without this sweet treat to fuel them?

Since I was little, o’ candy corn of mine,
you and I have been best buddies.
We’ve trick or treated, partied and handed out candy,
you’re simply a part of me.
Not to mention the reason for my cavities.

Candy corn, I must confess.

I can eat you in a cup.

I can eat you from a plate.

I can scoop you up in handfuls.

My favorite method, by far, is the funnel execution.

Just pour it all in, please. I’ll get the ones in my teeth out later.

Oh candy corn, how I love thee.
I’ll pass on the tricks, just give me the treat.

Top two images from Google. Other photos copyright of the Blond Duck.

*Stay tuned tomorrow! Instead of our usual dance hall dreamers tale, we’ll have a short spooky story guaranteed to terrify and cause shivers. And Thursday, we have the scariest meal you’ve ever seen. On Friday, the end of the spooky diner tale!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Ode to Candy Corn and How I Love Thee

But when I admit that I see ghosts, I’m deadly serious.

You see, I’ve had the terror/ pleasure of seeing ghosts four different times. Most people scoff and tell me I was a dumb kid or asleep, but I know I wasn’t. I saw ghosts. I know what I saw. You don’t get a chill down your back because of a person or a imagined spirit.

Don’t believe me? You will.

Occasion 1:

When I was in the second grade, I awoke to a strange noise one night. It sounded like someone was rustling through the kitchen. Indignant that someone was up when I wasn’t, I crept out to investigate. Padding across the floor in my nightgown, I trotted across the living room. Then I froze.

There was a naked man in my kitchen. And he was staring straight at me.

Horrified, I shut my eyes, then peeked open again. The naked man was still there, holding a glass of water.

I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t. My mouth hung open as I gaped at him. If my brain had been working, I would have demanded to know why a naked man was standing in my kitchen that I had never seen before.

Closing my eyes, I ran back to my room and shut the door. Then I climbed back in bed and refused to get out until my mom got me the next morning.

Now, my parents claim I was sleepwalking. They tell me I was having a dream and simply thought I saw someone. My mother even tried to convince me it was my father.

But the man was dark haired with olive skin, and he looked very frail.

My father is blond and has a beard.

Occasion 2:

When I was eight years old, my mother allowed my sister and I to have a sleepover with friends one night. We each called a friend up and set about setting boundaries. I got the front room. She got the living room. The front room had doors that closed it off and a TV with a couch that turned into a foldout bed. In my mind, I had won.

My friend Erin came over. We had some dinner, watched a movie, played a few games and then retreated to our lair. After playing Pretty Pretty Princess twelve or thirteen times, we grew bored. It was around nine and we were determined to make it to ten at night before we fell asleep. We rummaged through the game cabinet and found this.

But it’s not what you think.

We placed the board on the coffee table and shoved a plant to the side.

Then we started off with dumb questions. “Is anyone here?” “What’s your favorite color?” “Can you tell me who I’ll marry?”

Then, the room grew colder. Giddy with excitement, we traced the plastic piece around the letters. “Who are you?”

The plastic finder slid across the board like someone was jerking on it. J. U. N. E.

I sucked in my breath. “That’s my grandmother,” I told Erin. Her eyes widened.

Feeling brave, I moved the piece across the letters. “Prove it.” I spelled out. “Move the plant.”

The plant looked exactly like this. Shoving back from the table, we scuttled by the couch. We were close enough to see, but not close enough so our breath could blow one of the tendrils with leaves.

The room was colder. We shivered as we waited.

Then we saw it.

One of the tendrils raised two or three inches off the table. Then it dropped.

We gasped.

The tendril raised again, higher. Then dropped.

We couldn’t breathe.

The tendril raised a third time, higher. Then dropped again.

Screaming, we tore out of the front room and into the kitchen, babbling about my grandmother moving plants. We terrified my sister’s friend, who called for her Dad to take her home. After my mother had calmed us down, we went to bed.

But not before moving the plant and Ouija board across the house.

Occasion 3:

My grandmother lived in an old hospital when I was growing up. She lives in an itty bitty town in Oklahoma. The hospital was very small for a hospital but big for a house. It had cement floors and metal grooves were folding doors had been installed. It had concrete brick rooms for patients and a huge open room in the center for operations. It also had a long hallway down the center. Since my mother had four sisters and a brother, they needed the room.

Most people in my family believe the hospital is haunted. The one ghost most of us have heard is the little boy.

Late at night or in the early evening, you can hear the squeaking of tricycle wheels and the sounds of rubber wheels easing over the battered cement floor as the little boy rides up and down the hallway. If you’re lucky, you can even hear him giggle.

But, I heard something no one had heard before.

One summer, my mother, sister and I were visiting my grandmother and staying in her house. She had set up two old twin beds in the library/ living room, which was the old operating room in the center of the house. The only other person living there was my cousin, a eight year old boy. I was around 10 or 11 at the time.

The first night we were there, we brushed our teeth and slipped into bed. I fell asleep staring at rows of books and wondering which one I would read first.

In the middle of the night, I was jerked awake. The room was freezing. I shivered and drew the thin blanket around my chin.

And then I heard the voices.

They were right over my head. Deep, male voices standing no more than a foot over me. And they weren’t just chatting, they were discussing medical procedures. They were throwing out words and terms I couldn’t understand, but knew it wasn’t good. I knew it wasn’t my cousin, because he sounded like a girl. And I knew it was too close to be the TV.

“Excuse me,” I said in a firm voice. “I’m trying to sleep. There will be no operating tonight.”

The voices stopped. After awhile, I went back to sleep.

But I never stayed at my grandmothers again.

Occasion 4:

My grandfather passed away the summer I was ten years old. While preparing for the funeral, we stayed at his home in New Mexico. I don’t remember much about the time. There were a lot of relatives in and out and everyone was depressed.

That’s probably why I only remember this one thing.

The house was quiet and it was the middle of the afternoon. I crept towards my grandfather’s room. I knew I shouldn’t go in there. He wasn’t there. But I just had to see it. I had to see he was really gone.

I stood in the doorway and took a deep breath, holding his smell in my lungs. The room was bare. It was devoid of his quiet smile, his soft laugh. It was cold and empty. The only thing left was his bed and his boots by the silver boot scraper. Shivering, I turned to go.

Suddenly, I heard a shuffle. My head whipped around.

The shoe scraper was lying in the center of the room.

There was no one in the house.

I never went into that room again.

Whether you believe me or not, these stories are true. To this day, I won’t go in a house where someone has been murdered and I refuse to live in a historic house.

For you see, I’m terrified of what I might see.

*Tomorrow- an ode to my favorite Halloween treat!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

The Blond Duck talks to Ghosts. Seriously.

It was a monster–no a person–no a monster. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, but couldn’t bear to look. It was like watching someone die in a horrific car wreck. You couldn’t watch but you had to know, had to see. Bile threatened to spill from her throat and tears of fear streamed down her cheeks.

The black skin bubbled as it approached her, popping and oozing fresh blood and blisters. It’s mouth was horribly deformed, twisted into a warped grin. It hobbled towards her, waving a bright red arm in the air, as if all it’s skin had fallen off. But the eyes. The eyes terrified her most. For they were not the desperate, haunted look you would expect to see from a creature that had been obviously terribly abused.

They were evil. The bright black eyes focused on her, and she could feel the sick pleasure they held. It liked that she was terrified. It liked that even though she was still screaming, no sound came from her raw throat. It liked that her heart was racing and it felt like she would explode and drop to the floor simultaneously in a single second.

The creature, or man, whatever it was, laughed. The room went dark and Abby shut her eyes. She prayed it would be over quick.

“Is that pumpkin pie?” a small voice to her left inquired. “I do love pumpkin pie.”

Abby’s eyes flew open and a squeak escaped her. The lights were blazing in the diner. The horrid creature was gone. Standing across from her at the bar was a small boy wearing a blue sailor suit. Chocolate was smeared around his mouth and his blue eyes twinkled.

“May I have a piece, please?” he pleaded, licking his lips. “I would dearly love some pumpkin pie.”

All Abby could do was stare at him. “Who are you?” she whispered.

The boy grinned up at her. “My name is Paul, ma’am,” he said. “Though I can’t tell you my last name. My mother always said not to talk to strangers.” He reached toward the pie and Abby recoiled, clutching the plastic spoon to her chest.

“Oh,” the Paul said knowingly. “You saw him.”

Abby nodded.

“It’s ok now,” the boy said, patting her hand. His fingers were as cold as ice. “He’s gone. You won’t see him for awhile. We’re all here now.”

“We?” she whispered.

“Can’t you see us?” Paul asked, his forehead wrinkled. He glanced at her plate and relief crossed his face. “Oh, that’s why,” he said. “You didn’t finish your pie. Go on.”

Abby blinked.

“Go on,” Paul encouraged her, licking his lips again. “It looks delicious.”

The last thing Abby wanted was pie. But she stabbed the last bite and popped it into her mouth anyway. Watching Paul, she swallowed and waited.

In a mere blink it all changed. Oldies blared from the jukebox as waitresses in beehives whisked around the floor. The booths were overflowing with families and young couples danced around the tile floor. There were soldiers in old army uniforms and their sweethearts with red lipstick. An elderly couple dined on meatloaf in the back corner as a mother hosted her daughter’s fifth birthday party. The front door jingled and a group of cheerleaders in fitted sweaters and long skirts and saddle shoes swept in on the arm of their varsity boyfriends.

“Oh my God,” Abby said, her eyes wide as she took it all in.

“Miss,” the boy whined as he wiggled. “My pie?”

“Oh, right.” In a daze, she cut a large slice of pie and slid it towards him. She handed him a fork.

“Can I get some milk, too?” Paul asked, beaming at his pie.

“Milk?” Abby repeated dumbly.

“I’ll get it honey.” A waitress in cat-eyed glasses plopped it down in front of Paul. She narrowed her eyes at Abby. “Are you the new girl?”

Abby nodded. “Well, I’ll let you off this once,” she said, pursing her lips. “But you can’t sit here all night. We’re not paying you to eat pie! Table 14 in 15 minutes.” With that, she flew into the kitchen.

Abby shook her head and turned to Paul. “What is all this?” she asked. “Why can I see you?”

“It’s Halloween,” Paul said as if she was dumb. “And it’s after midnight.”

“Are you all…ghosts?” Abby asked. Paul nodded. He was much too polite to add, “Duh.”

“You died so young.” Abby felt her chin quiver and tears spring to her eyes.

“No I didn’t.” Paul calmly took another bite of pie. “Most of us didn’t die here, or at this age. This was simply our happiest time. We could have died that night, or at 80 in our beds. It doesn’t matter. You haunt where you want to haunt.”

“Oh.” Abby leaned forward. “What was”–

“That?” Paul took a sip of his milk. “That’s Mr. Jackson. He’s the original owner.”

“Why is he”– Abby shuddered.

“That’s a sad tale,” Paul said, taking another bite of pie. “Mr. Jackson’s wife died after he built the diner. He was so distraught, he became a miserable man who spent all his time working. He was rude and stingy. Worse than Ebeneezer Scrooge. Some believed he was evil, others just thought he was misunderstood.

“One day, a new waitress started working here named Jessica. She had thick auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. Mr. Jackson fell hard, even though she was young enough to be his daughter. He asked her out constantly, which is illegal now days. But Jessica always said no. She was always very kind to him, but she made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him romantically. It made Mr. Jackson so angry he took to drinking.

“One night, Jessica was working late when Mr. Jackson burst in the kitchen. He demanded she have some pie and coffee with her. Jessica said no, that she had a date. Mr. Jackson roared and rushed toward her, and Jessica screamed and jumped away. He fell into the deep fryer, where he was killed instantly.”

Abby stared at him open mouthed as he kept munching on his pie.

“From that day on, he’s haunted the diner, trapping all the souls who choose to be here,” Paul said. “We can only get out after Halloween at midnight. Until someone has some pie and coffee with him and pretends she’s Jessica, we can never be free.”

His eyes brightened and he set down his fork. “Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “You can help us. You look kinda like she did. We could cover your hair and you could play Jessica.”

Her eyes widened. Abby opened her mouth to respond….

To be continued…

**Tomorrow, a new Miss Pickles! Also, Halloween week starts Monday!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

The Ghost of the Diner

It was her first week, and she didn’t know any better. After the Halloween party had ended and all the staff had packed up their plastic pumpkin buckets and untied their aprons, the manager had looked at her.

“Abby, are you sure you’re ok?” he asked, his forehead creased in a million wrinkles like the wrapper of a butter stick. “I mean, I don’t want you to stay here alone. You’re new and I never let new people close…”

“But I’m not really closing,” Abby replied brightly. “You’ve cashed out the registers and have the deposit with you. All I’m going to do is turn off the lights and shut the door.”

“But you’re sure your boyfriend is coming, right?” the manager asked, biting his lip. He had only known Abby a week, but he liked her a lot. She reminded him of his youngest daughter, full of the same energy and spunk. Turning around, he glanced out the windows. “This isn’t exactly the best neighborhood,” he continued, watching worriedly out the thick glass. “And it’s Halloween. I don’t want some punk kids messing with you.”

Abby’s phone rang and she began to dig in her purse. “I’ll be fine,” she reassured her boss as lipstick and mascara wands flew in the air around her. “I’m sure that’s him now.”

The boss tapped the money bag on his leg. “Promise to call me if he’s not here in fifteen minutes?” he asked. “I’m going to run this to the bank. I can easily come back and take you home. Do you know my cell phone?” Without letting her answer, he pulled a pen out of his shirt and jotted it on a napkin. “Don’t be afraid to call me, ok?” he said, shoving the napkin towards her.

Abby smiled as she continued to burrow through her purse. The ringing stopped. “Drat,” she commented. Flipping up her fine blond hair, she gave her boss a bemused glance. “Joe, don’t worry,” she said. “I promise, I’ll be fine. I’ll probably cut myself a piece of this pumpkin pie right here.” She pointed to the half-eaten pie under the glass cover on the counter.

When Joe didn’t say anything, she felt an uneasy clench in her stomach. Even after a week, she knew he often teased the employees about eating the pie. “Save it for the customers!” he had joked the first time she cut herself a slice of the pecan pie on her break.

“I promise, I’ll be fine,” she repeated, untying her apron. She’d find her phone after he left. She glanced at her watch. “It’s 11:30 now. You better go.”

Joe checked the clock and sighed. “I’ll be back if you need me,” he promised as he slid out the front door. “Call me if anything strange happens.” The door shut with a merry jingle and the restaurant went quiet. Abby exhaled and shook her hair so it fell around her shoulders. Plopping down at the counter, she pulled off the metal cover and cut herself a piece of pie. She pulled out a to-go box from under the counter and plopped the pie in the center. Ripping a plastic package of silverware open, she shook out a fork. Sliding it through the creamy pumpkin goodness, she took a bite and smiled with pleasure.

Then she heard a slight metallic click.

Blinking, she waited for a moment. The air was silent save her own breathing. Shrugging, she took another bite.

This time, she heard a slight thump, like a hard shoe on a rubber floor. She whirled around, hoping the kitchen staff wasn’t playing a joke.

“Hello?” she called. She glanced to her left, than her right. The booths were empty. The tables were clear. There was no one there.

Grabbing her purse, she dug out her cell phone. Punching the buttons, she propped it next to her ear while she took another bite. The dial rang shrilly as she waited.

“Hello, this is George,” her boyfriend’s voice rang in her ear. “Sorry I missed you. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Hmmm.” Abby bit her lip and looked at her missed calls. The number was unavailable. She felt an uneasy feeling snake down her spine. She shoved another bite of pie in her mouth and hunched over the take-out container, her eyes daring around. As she chewed, she felt goosebumps pop out all over her legs and arms. The air seemed suddenly cold.

“It’s just because I quit running around,” Abby muttered to herself. “The absence of body heat is making it cold in here.”

She still looked at the clock. 11:53. George should have been here twenty minutes ago. She picked up her cell phone and dialed him again. When the answering machine picked up, she said, “George, where are you? I really need you to get here. I’m kinda freaking out. Hurry.” Hanging up, she shoved her phone in her pocket. She stared at the napkin with her boss’s number in front of her. Stabbing at the pie, she took another bite. She couldn’t call her boss. She wouldn’t call him. She had just been watching too many movies.

She looked at the clock. 11:59.

Sighing, she lifted up the napkin. Sliding her cell phone out of her pocket, she pushed the first number.

The lights went off. The jukebox flipped on.

It was midnight.

*I’m off to a wedding, Invisible Friends, so it may be a few days until I can visit your blogs. Until then, hope this spooky tale and tomorrow’s 7 things about Vivi and Wade will tide you over!

Copyright © 2009 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Midnight at the Diner