The grievances of a Halloween bowl decimated by trick-or-treaters

Photo by Annie Liu

Woeful tears of the Halloween bowl.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed: The days blended into weeks, the weeks had blended into months and I — an ignored Halloween candy bowl — was growing tired from disuse. My orange paint was peeling, and the toothy black smile painted on me could not be more superficial. 

Oh to feel the delightful fulfillment of the night breeze, a feeling I’ve craved for countless days now. The pantry’s top shelf got chilly — teasing me with a hint of what could be — but the air was suffocatingly windless, and dust continued to fill the void that was me. I laid there in gnawing anticipation, boring holes into the door as I waited for that crack of hopeful lights.

But finally — a soft click jolts me out of my tearful reminiscence. Warm hands grasp me and bring me towards the light. I am Plato, dragged out of his cave into golden, genial enlightenment. Finally, I sit on my rightful throne in the patio, towering over the stone steps. I close my eyes — this is bliss. 

Just as I let myself get comfortable, I suddenly feel pudgy fingers roughly dig into the candy depths of my soul. I scream at them to stop, but they continue to relentlessly rip out two, three, even four sweet organs at a time. I cannot believe my eyes. They pick me up and hang me over an endlessly dark pit, savagely shaking me over and over again until my insides are emptied out. As they turn around and run, they start eating the parts of me they hold in their hands! 

After long grueling hours of vicious attack, I lay there bloody, broken, and bruised, devoid of my previous glory. If there is a God in this world, please know that I was wrong — please end this misery.