Welcome all, to the All Hallows' edition of the Friday 55. In a year where almost every day has felt like Halloween, it may be hard to get into the spirit of this ancient celebration of the thinning of the veil between the quick and the dead. It may be too tragic to think of all those who were here and now are gone in this year of plague rampant and its utter chaos, with a dubious future ahead.
Nonetheless, this exercise continues, and let the 55 chips fall where they may, as we remember happier if not scarier times, and the originator of this meme, Galen Hayes, by attempting to have a writer's kickass weekend to a radioactive Jack-O-Lantern's glow.
The rules remain the same. Write a poem, piece of prose poetry or flash fiction in exactly 55 words, no more, no less, and post your link in the comments below. I will be by to read whatever has haunted you this week.
The meme will be live from Thursday at the Witching Hour til Sunday at 4 pm.
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Here is my 55. We have had a historic and crippling ice storm here, and the ghosts of my trees are with me in this piece.
I woke in the dryads' dying hours
to the champagne-crack of their maple towers
falling; ice-winds honed a banshee tune,
a butcher's knife to carve the pumpkin moon.
1000 suns of supple leaf expire
when winter kicks down summer's flimsy door;
a protean shift from sheeted ice to fire
to dryads' ash on Halloween's dancing-floor.
Images: The Woodland Dryad, © Jesse T. Banfield, 1913 via wikimedia commons Fair Use
Redbud ruins, October 2020 ice storm, © joyannjones