Dessert with Skulls

We devoured a skull whose eye sockets were jammed with crimson… pomegranate seeds. The Little Princess ate an eye socket, my in-laws split half of the upper and lower jaw, and my Piano Man and I shared one side of the brain. It was delicious… how it grinned at us the whole time. I was supposed to save the other side of the brain for The Boy, but… my teeth betrayed my sense of giving. I might’ve eaten the remaining eye socket, too. I must bake another skull for The Boy.

skull-cakeboxed spiced cake mix
(for extra yum, add a cup of fresh graded carrots, and
replace ¼ of the required water with Baileys Irish Cream Caramel)

playing-sorry-after-skull-cakeAfter we had dessert with skulls (um… with skull),
there was a game of Sorry! (my Piano Man was not sorry at all)
*by the way, we had pumpkin chili for dinner*.

half-of-a-skull-cakeBefore the Sorry! bit started, the skull had already lost half its head.
Hm… the remnants of the missing pomegranate seeds
give the plate an interestingly-reddish look, don’t you think?

This is our traditional Halloween dinner. But we had it a week ago, in order to share it with my in-laws. What are you cooking today, my Wicked Luvs? Are you going to send me a wee bit? You should… particularly, if the meal grins at you while you eat it. Muahahaha— *cough* ha!

…a wee note…
If you have a minute or three, fly over to Poems United… to read “Poems for a Witchy Hallowe’en”—poetry and a wee bit of conversation by Sherry, Rosemary and moi.

On el Dia de los Muertos, the Puppet Feels

She births me on el Dia de los Muertos, stuffs me with hope and stitches me up… with deeds.

“Hope isn’t hard to find,” she says, “the thing grows wild out of the eyeballs of young children, and steady in the far stares of well-lived adults, who understand that ends are just new kinds of beginnings. The deeds, well… those take work and pain and blood.”

“It does hurt,” I say, clenching the painted cloth of my teeth against the jabbing pain, rubbing the crimsoned stitches she is using to secure the hope of young and old to the inside of my chest.

“I know.” She cuts the spare thread with her teeth, and kisses the top of my head, before taking a step back to smile at newly born me. Her lips are bloodied. Red has trickled down to her chest.

“You are dirty,” I say, pointing at the cloth that covers her heart.

She unbuttons the top of her dress, revealing fresh ragged stitches that mirror my own, and says, “Dirty? No, just paying the price for hope, for life.”

“I’m sorry,” I say with a smirk, knowing the crooked lines of my mouth morph the gesture into a creepy thing.

“Be not sorry, and live,” she tells me. Her smile is a red kick in the face of impossible.

She births me every Dia de los Muertos. And she stuffs me with hope which she bleeds for me.
.

the wee notes…
– This bit of fiction was born out of my need to know why the Puppet in “Dance, Old Bones” had such a creepy smirk on her face. I guess now we know—most of us cringe at needles… but some of us (since we know we must) smirk in Pain’s face, showing a menacing amount of teeth.
– Linked to Incipient Wings’ Haunted Humpday.

puppet-detail-from-spelling-healing-into-a-rotting-world-by-sunshineshelledetail, from “Spelling Healing into a Rotting World”, by SunshineShelle