Tis The Season

Word Count 633


TIS THE SEASON

By T.C. McQueen

I always love this time of year. The chance to see family, the food, the seasonal music.
The decorations, pictures of a jolly figure all in red. Leaving out a special something for him, waiting expectantly for the tell tale clatter of hooves on the roof.

For some of my family it's all about the religous significance and the tradition but I guess it's mostly about the food for me.

Don't get me wrong it's great to see the family again after a year of hard work and long hours but all the effort goes to putting that special meal on the table. It's the look on their faces that makes it worthwhile. The guests I mean.

I love the way father invites them in when they ring our doorbell, total strangers every one, with that smile of his that so disarms folks. He offers them drinks from a little silver tray he has said many a prayer over, and they never even notice the strange taste until the poison takes effect.
Once their surprised faces hit the hallway floor, Mother is straight in there checking for a pulse, then its straight off to the kitchen. The paralysis usually lasts all the way through proceedings.

Usually I get left with stripping the bodies and scrubbing them down of course as the eldest thats my job. You would be surprised at the lack of personal hygeine these days. Of course one of the benefits of that is getting an occasional nibble as a pre dinner snack. I prefer a quick earlobe, nothing anyone would miss. Sweet and juicy. Yum.Besides, I am helping aren't I. Didn't you ever get a treat for helping with dinner?

Once we are all seated round the dinner table Mother often scolds us for our lack of manners, trying to sneak scrap before Father has said grace.
It must be said however, Father's graces to our Dark Lord do tend to ramble on somewhat. He always like to expound on the family virtues, getting in his little digs about his offsprings lack of drive etc.
It's something my brothers and I take as our pennance for a year of living amongst humans which according to Father pollutes our cultural heritage and is an affront to Satan.
By this point however we are usually salivating too much to notice the rhetoric.

Then Mother usually clears her throat and points out dinner will wake up if he doesn't get a move on.
For all the differences between us, I must say Father can carve a beautiful meal. Any fool can cut into flesh, but Father is indeed an artist. Under his skilled hands the blood sprays in positively balletic arcs across the dining room as he works his knife into the pale twitching flesh. His blade glides over the human form removing heart, liver,lungs and kidneys like a virtuoso conducting a symphony. If he's of a particularly playful frame of mind he flips portions onto our plate with the flair of a TV chef and wrings the juices over the offering with a dramatic flourish. After all no one likes their dinner to be dry do they?

Once our hunger has been thouroughly satisfied and we are done snacking on the bones of the carcass, we often recline in the lounge while my younger brothers clean up. Mother being Mother will always manage to find some tidbit of leftover to tempt me with, aghast at the notion of it going to waste.

Of course when that doorbell rings an hour later and shouts of "Trick or Treat" are to be heard, Father casts a long suffering glance at Mother and reaches again for the drinks tray.

Only one thought fills my head, dessert!

Happy Halloween everyone!