One morning the world turned a bit colder, a bit foggier, dare I even say a bit morbid. Yet no one outside the selected few noticed or cared to deign much attention.
The normals went about their lives preparing for a Summer that would come to try and break every bit of heat resistance they had while the 10 or so of us began the plots and schemes to claim what we never knew we had.
All of my focus, my energy, my life force if you will could only be poured into this one endeavour lest we all fail.
I speak of the 30 or so tombstones we had to get carved, epitathed, painted and pushed out the door before the Halloween dance was upon us. This required certain sacrifices, not only of time or finger dexterity or clean unpainted clothes but creativity as well.
For all of summer the only time I picked up a paint brush was to fill in letters I etched into foam with an exacto blade with black. My room filled with boxes of costume bits and scraps of foam (as did the rest of the house) and there was nary a scrap of room to set down a small 6x8 much less any painting of substance.
Truly, it had been so long I was beginning to suspect that any interest I had in painting had run its course, had a bit of a laugh and phoned home to ask me to come and pick it up. Then one chilly night I sat down with brush pot in hand and out came this:
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