Ms. Anderson’s voice grated. “Are you enjoying trunk-or-treat, Billy? You make such a cute angel!” She handed him several cubes of low-fat, low-sugar, low-taste caramel.
Billy scowled. “I wanted to be a werewolf.”
Billy’s mother blanched. “Billy, is that any way to be on Beggar’s Night?”
Billy shook off the costume’s wings and walked away. “It’s Halloween,” he muttered, low enough that neither woman heard him.
In the brilliance of the headlights, the congregation planned their defense against the War On Christmas.
Billy looked past the lights, past the suburbs, to the moon beginning to rise.
Billy began to howl.
(I originally wrote and posted this five years ago; I thought it appropriate to bring up again.)