A pale woman stands in front of you. Her hair is glossy and deep, deep red, and her eyes are a lovely chartreuse, sparkling as if there's a joke only she understands. She wears hoop earrings with jade baubles, and a sunshine colored rune hangs over her forehead. A rich, shimmering purple dress drapes over her body, the same fabric as the ribbons on the needle in her hand. Without a doubt, she is beautiful.
But her full, burgundy lips are tilted downwards, her eyes wide and scared, and there are puppet markings along her body, painted there with her lies and the blood she has spilled. She was once perfect. Now, she is but a puppet on much, much darker strings.
Behind her lies Hell. She beckons you inside, to the land of tall stone columns, binding magic slowly eroded away, and demons straining at their bonds.
You find that you're less afraid now. What you did, you must make up for. There is blood on your hands and your heart lies in pieces on the ground, but you're fine with that. You have accepted your fate.
Her lips draw into a grim smile. "I am Kisira, gatekeeper of this barren land. Welcome home."
There is sadness in her eyes, sadness explained by years and years of welcoming damned souls into her home. She loves them, those who have no place to go but to her door. She must. But it is hard, being the gatekeeper of a people who will never love her in return.
It is hard, welcoming the ones she must learn to love to a place they will never leave, to a place in which they will someday fade away from. She watches them come here and fade, until there is no one left and she is alone again.
Sometimes, she wonders if it is better to be alone and never love others or love only to lose. She wishes that no lost and lonely souls would come to her, so she would not have to learn to love them only to lose them again.
Long after you are gone, she will not have forgotten you. She will remember you, the things that she loved and the memories she's made with you. Every thing you told her, about the world and how the world moves on. About love and loss. She will remember, and you will not be forgotten. And the memories, those memories of hers? You will not be forgotten.
But you will never leave this place again. You turn towards the last rays of sunlight, knowing, even though they told you it would be but a year trapped there to atone, those fading rays of sunlight are the last you will ever see. You memorize them, knowing it won't take long to forget how the sun felt on your face.
Kisira's Gates close behind you.
"Welcome home," she says. "I am Kisira, the gatekeeper. Remember the sun, child. You'll miss what you always took for granted."

The Wicker Witch

A being that weaves magic and plays with the space that holds our realm like a woven basket. On such nights like Hallow's Eve Wicker Witches unravel the space in-between realms that cause all manor of creatures to appear here on Earth. Some call her a shaman, others a witch and I, a rather odd spirit. Her form can be considered strange, a cross between the place we cannot see and the form of a human with a spirit by her side. Sometimes she comes with blessings, other times as an accidental summon. Children do not fear her, for them the Wicker Witch is the kindly old lady who has a penchant for wicker work, however for those that stir forgotten legends and create havoc this spirit will not tolerate. Especially those that vandalize her handiwork, both in the spirit realm and the mundane realm.

Another Halloween, another night of scaring people to death. I walk around with my creepy pet, receiving many frightened stares. Occasionally I hide behind a bush and leap out, causing them to scream in fear. Even when I go trick-or-treat, they do not realize it's a costume... haha.

(I now question my writing skills even more.)

The Puppet



Ruling the world was her goal,
Everyone was under her control.
There was nothing they could do,
She escaped every trap the threw.
Whatever she wanted she got.
She never cared how other people thought.
She took everything far and near.
And they nicknamed her "The Puppetier"

Then one day, the demon, Wrest,
Decided to give her one last test.
Knowing she was hard to trick,
Wrest have her a choice to pick.
She could share a large wealth and keep her soul.
Or lose control and keep the gold.
At that moment she thought knew
What was right and picked number two.
She once controlled everything, this little poppet.
But it was her turn, she was "The Puppet"

this is senri he is a ghost who comes back everyholloween to his grave with him spitet guid zero to scare the kids who are brave to wonder near his resting place

My entry;

A forest dryad following the changing of seasons. She is currenty a fall dryad. With her is the spirit guide of the forest, who guides the souls lost this previous summer to her, so she can send them safely off.

broken from his bonds atlast, Kubare the fallen warlord will soon return to his homeland.

he wanted to be the ruler of his kingdom, and commanded a massive army to conquer more and more lands. Kubare's simple but affective strategy of telling his soldiers to leave none alive made others tremble at the mention of his name. his king saw he would grow to strong and overthrow him, and the subjects of the kingdom feared his lack of compassion. even his army grew to hate his unexhaustable thirst for war. they voted to exile Kubare to the darkest cave in the far north, where demons were thought to lurk.

in his 20 years of exile he slowly found allies in the cave who shared his ruthless ambition and desire for destruction: a small impish feathered beast that enjoys mischeif, and a wicked demon that embodies the shadows itself, would be the greatest assets to his return and conquest. Kubare no longer wanted a kingdom. he now wants revenge, and he and his demon compainions would destroy his unfaithful army, timid people, and the old and weak king.

Kubare's clothes were in rags. his skin was pale from years without sun. but his warlord crown still stayed on his head. he knew his favorite time was coming: time for war.

During fall, a lot of trees in our city tend to eighter get sheared or fall. Then some usually really fetal disaster occurs and it just...stops. Me and my friend made up a story in third-grade to explain why- here it is, equally cut down. Wherever you are, Richard, half of the credit goes to you.



To (It)
An ancient, corrupted spirit of autumn winds and last harvests.
When buildings grew too tall for It to glide over them, It was forced to perilously fly between them. Its wings bash against the concrete until the last drop of color drains out of them, and then with every crash, more and more white feathers obscure the view of mortals who find themselves near.

Plants grow old beneath Its broken wings, and especially trees suffer from Its twisted presence. Their leafs bleed into wicked shades and the most unfortunate ones find themselves falling down, the ground beneath them rejecting their tainted roots.
At the end of the season, It comes to the brink of complete exhaustion. With that, It becomes more and more heedless. Right now, its tearings things out of the hands of those who didn't or couldn't grasp them tightly enough- It is on its way to perch on the oldest Oak in town, for final rest before Winter makes its entrance.

By coincidence, there is a music festival happening under the oak's branches.

By another coincidence, It can't quite bring itself to care.