The cover image was drawn by Lantern as part of our collaboration with the MHS Youth Arts Movement Club
On the thirty-first night
Of the month within the heart of autumn,
The eyes of a little girl suddenly snap open.
Her dilated pupils wander around the ceiling of her chamber; her ears are assailed by the growls that journey from another domain. And her heart—her panicked heart—is screaming for no particular reason—no particular reason—bleeding and intensely beating.
Gradually, the mood of fright wanes and serenity settles in.
The little girl rises from her bed and stands rooted in the middle of her personal oasis—
her chamber of childhood, her room of comfort, her vault of treasures. The only unwanted item is an elegant grandfather clock that never stops ticking.
Slowly, she turns her head.
And slowly, she walks step by step,
Out towards the hallway, where the chrysanthemums grow.
Paying no heed to the flowers that sprout from the carpeted floor,
And paying no attention to the fantasies that litter the room,
The little girl continues to move forward.
Suddenly, she stops.
She hears the cackles of a scarecrow, one whose head is a pumpkin carved
from a knife that shimmered with a maddening gleam—but that isn’t
what caught her attention.
Again, she strains her ears, only to hear the gutting of an apple,
Whose death is followed by a thud to the wooden board—
But that isn’t what caught her attention either.
Finally, her ears catch the elusive and undesired sound. . .
It comes as a “tick” then a “tock,”
Something never seen before, even in her dreams. A clock.
Though the object is normal and dull beyond compare,
The little girl, her eyes wide with fright, begins to bolt
Towards an exit she can almost reach,
But the sound of a gong brings her to a screeching stop,
And her consciousness submits to fatigue. . .
The memory fades as the sun rises and fails to wake
A woman lying in the chamber of her childhood,
Past the hallway adorned with the recollections of youth,
Past the wall with a grandfather clock whose hands are still,
And into the backyard gardens, where the chrysanthemums grow.
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