Aura Martin is currently a senior creative writing (B.F.A.) student at Truman State University. She serves as staff writer for The Index–Truman State University’s student-led newspaper–intern at Golden Antelope Press, and assistant nonfiction editor at WORDPEACE. In Aura’s free time, she likes to run and take road trips.
Flirting with Inflection
It wasn’t the first time a man scared me on Halloween. Rewind two years. Blood orange leaves and grinning plastic buckets. Trick-or-treaters on the cracked driveway.
What do you say?
I’m wrapped in my woolen blanket. Thank you.
Write a story about children who play literal hangman. Each wrong guess gets you closer to swinging. Flickering street lights. Hands dip into the candy cauldron.
This night on Bald Mountain, let goblins dance with violins as you sit on a throne of bones. Save some candy for yourself. A winged-girl looks up at me and smiles.
I will, I say to the fairy. Where would she go if she could fly?
Why hello there. A man’s voice cuts my reverie. He leans in and exhales cigarette smoke. I feel the noose tighten around my neck. He extends his hand and grips mine. I try to pull away.
Do you live here? I’ve never seen you around this house before. You look at my house? This night blindfolded me. He surveys my body. The eyes of a man who hasn’t seen a woman in a long time. I know what he sees. What is your name, my dear? I’m sure you have a beautiful name.
Do I remain here, waiting to see him again? I look back. You will not release that trapdoor. I want to pluck out your eyeballs and use them as marbles.