I remember mud and rotten pumpkins...

Writing prompt.

I remember mud and rotten pumpkins when I awoke. The way the memories worked was always sort of strange. There was a breath escaping dry lips, until it finally became a routine I was once accustomed to, or was I? It was a windless night, and I vaguely remember a hand, my hand, clawing its way out of the soil, the warm soil. There was a moon, and autumn leaves blowing around, rustling, and with that the realisation that I could hear, and soon, proper sight. From what I could tell, I lay with my back against a large gnarled tree. Who was I? I believe I was a hoarder at one point, and a therapeutic trasher the next. If I was awake, then it was that time of year again. Halloween. All Hallow’s Eve. The Holy Witches Sabbat. I was awake yet again for another night. They say you’re awake for the entire day, which in fact is true, but half of the day, that is, the daylight, is spent recuperating. The only reason I haven’t fallen apart yet is because magic had the good sense to reattach some limbs, and brain activity, and a hunger for brains. So you really only had the night to yourself. And upon the stroke of midnight, it wasn’t like everything just came crashing down into nothingness. No, you actually gradually devolved, always making your way back to the grave, dropping a few things here and there on your way back, like a finger or two, maybe an eyelid, but they also had their own way of dissolving back into the ground, or rolling into the middle of a street to get squished by a car. So in truth, there was always less of you every year. And I couldn’t remember how long I had been alive for. Only that I was alive, right now, thanks to the grace of the Witch Goddess. Not being able to feel anything other than an insatiable hunger had its benefits. The way breath worked its way through your body was comforting, calm, rhythmic. But soon the magic would have its way with me again, and I’d be forced to go on my nightly prowl, occasionally spotting an old friend or two down the lane. The magic started with a thought, in fact. It was a command. And it wasn’t against your intentions. That’s the way it worked. It made you want to do it. To feel like maybe you could actually make a difference. Kill a few innocents. The times were long gone. They didn’t matter anymore. When you’re dead, even to be found alive for half a day, you tend to get all philosophical. And that was usually followed by boredom, when you realised you actually wanted to do something, exercise what was left of your muscles from the night before.

Author's Note

Random and incomplete. I'm just archiving a lot of stuff that I want to remove from my computer but don't wish to lose. This was never heading anywhere. It was a word prompt for one of those NaNoWriMo word wars I was participating in with a friend. The title line is from a Starter exercise in Brigid Lowry's "Juicy Writing: Inspiration and Techniques for Young Writers".

Written 29 July 2014.