Happy Halloween

 

Mag's Midnight Query

On the fringe of a fog-shrouded suburb, where jack-o'-lanterns grinned like riddles etched in rind, Mag perched on her porch swing, legs tucked under a threadbare witch's cape she'd sewn from thrift-store curtains. It was Halloween, 2025, and the neighbourhood thrummed with costumed chaos—tiny vampires demanding tribute, ghosts trailing bedsheets like existential veils. But Mag? She wasn't handing out Snickers or spectral sweets. No, she was Mag, the neighborhood's perpetual "why-girl," the one who'd once halted a block party to interrogate the physics of piñatas: How does candy defy gravity until betrayal? Tonight, her pumpkin wasn't carved with triangles for eyes. It bore a single, wobbly question mark, lit from within by a tealight that flickered like doubt. A sign dangled beside it: Trick or Query? In Sharpie scrawl, she'd added footnotes: Why orange? How does fear ferment into fun? When did masks become alibis?As the doorbell chimed—ding-dong like a hesitant oracle—a cluster of pint-sized superheroes clustered on her stoop, capes askew, expecting the usual haul. Mag leaned forward, her silver-streaked bob catching the porch light like a comet's tail. "Happy... what, exactly?" she mused aloud, tilting her head as if the words were a puzzle box. The kids blinked, buckets poised. One tiny Batman furrowed his brow beneath the mask. "Uh, Halloween? Candy?"Mag's eyes sparkled, not with mischief, but with that insatiable spark—the one that unravelled yarn balls of certainty. "Ah, but Halloween. Why this night, of all three hundred sixty-five? Is it the veil thinning, like onion skin between worlds, or just capitalism's clever cloak for excess?" She rummaged in her cauldron (a repurposed stockpot), emerging not with Milky Ways, but with handwritten cards. Each bore a riddle: When does a shadow whisper your secrets? (Answer: At dusk, if you're brave enough to listen.)The kids exchanged glances—equal parts bewilderment and glee. A fairy with glitter-dusted wings snatched one, giggling. "This is better than Tootsie Rolls!" Emboldened, Mag pressed on, her voice a velvet hook. "And how do we say 'happy' to a holiday built on haunts? Does joy chase the goosebumps, or do they dance together?" She doled out the cards like contraband wisdom, watching their faces light up as questions bloomed. No sugar crash here—just the sweet sting of curiosity. As the troupe scampered off into the mist, trailing laughter like comet dust, Mag settled back, swing creaking in rhythm with the settling fog. Her own bowl, untouched, held a single treat: a mirror shard wrapped in twine. For seeing the ghost in the mirror, she'd noted on the tag. Why you? Because when's the best time to question yourself? Now. From the shadows of her gingko tree, a figure emerged—her neighbour, old Mr. Hale, in a fedora that screamed "detective from a bygone noir." He'd skipped the block's bash to lurk, as always, nursing a thermos of spiked cider. "Mag, you gonna scare 'em straight into philosophy majors?"She smirked, handing him a card: How does one wish 'happy' to the unquiet dead? "By asking, Hale. Always by asking." He chuckled, pocketing it. "Well, then—happy unravelling."As midnight tolled, distant and mocking, Mag whispered to the empty street: "Happy... inquiry?" The question mark pumpkin winked in agreement. In a world of pat answers, her Halloween wasn't a shout. It was a summons. And tonight, the night had answered.

The Enchanted Wanderer

The Enchanted Wanderer in Okotoks

In the heart of Okotoks, Alberta, where the prairie skies stretch wide and the foothills whisper ancient tales, lived Mag, a woman whose spirit danced as freely as the wind through the wild grasses. With her sun-bleached blonde hair and eyes that mirrored the shifting hues of the Sheep River, Mag was a local, known for her strolls along the town's pathways, her arms swaying like branches in a breeze. Born and raised in Alberta, not far from Calgary, she had grown up amid the prairies blooming wildflowers and the hum of construction that shaped southern Alberta, finding beauty in both the natural and the evolving.

Mag was a creator at heart, her cottage home the riverbanks a gallery of her whimsy. Oil paintings of galloping deer and soaring hawks adorned her walls, each stroke a love letter to the outdoors she adored. She painted fantastical creatures from river stones and driftwood, imagining them as guardians of hidden glens. Her days were spent exploring the trails around Big Rock, where she’d sketch the rugged landscape, or wandering Kananaskis Country, her laughter mingling with the calls of loons. Animals seemed drawn to her, once, a curious fox trailed her home, curling up on her porch as if it belonged there, and she welcomed it with a grin. (Not a true one, but it fits the story.)

But Mag’s tale took a magical turn one crisp evening under a harvest moon. As she painted by the river, her brush dipped in starlight hues, a shimmering mist rose from the water. Out stepped a figure, a spirit of the plains, clad in a cloak of woven grass, who called herself Elara. "You’ve painted my realm with such joy," Elara said, her voice like rustling leaves. "Join me in a dance, and I’ll gift you a vision." Mag, ever the free spirit, twirled with the spirit, her feet barely touching the earth. When the mist cleared, she saw Okotoks transformed: fields blooming with enchanted flowers, streams singing melodies, and animals speaking in riddles. Elara’s gift was a brush that turned her art into life, each painting now birthed a fleeting wonder, like a deer that leapt from canvas to graze the hills.

From then on, Mag’s whimsy spread. Children from town sought her out, their eyes wide as she painted magical scenes, lions with wings, fish that flew, watching them come alive for a moment before fading into the ether. Her blog, though not the focus, hinted at these tales, shared with a wink and a promise of more mysteries. In Okotoks, Mag wasn’t just an artist; she was a weaver of dreams, a bridge between the real and the fantastical, her life a canvas where nature and imagination painted a story all her own. 

This is a tale, not all of it is truth, it is a story created to encourage people to dream.