Imps eat candy. |
Once all the candy was gone, the room fell silent. Only the faint hum of the industrial furnace motor. Twelve Sugar Imps sat staid, countenances smug. Bone white skin, bulging green eyes, three feet tall. Imps on Halloween stalked trick-or-treaters house to house, behind hedges, aside the burning bush, grabbed bag after bag amid wail of tot and angry parent flail, pursuit, community en masse madly mobbing, trailing Imps scurrying like wind devils across lawn, drive, avenues and easements, then reconnoitering as Imps are want to do at the old school, jimmying the side door gaining full access. Ditching the parent mob, such is the speed of Imp, now using second grade classroom to gorge Fifth Avenue, Baby Ruth, Milky Way, Snickers, Butter Finger, Imp drool dripping like viscous amber on desk, high-pitched Imp-squeals like loose fan belts as razor-sharp incisors and knobby molars gnawed bar after bar, enthusiastic in appetite eating eagerly, din escalating in an Imp-gorge orgy, succulent sweet the caramel, the chocolate, consequence of the cane, manic wee entities these Imps, raucousness at large, ingesting purloined loot from many innocents in tears. Imps sated--heads back, eyes closed, mouths open. 24 Lines Writer’s Cramp 11-6-14 |