Liam’s Costume
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“Grammy, I want to be my guy.”
Liam was nine. His “guy” was some video game warrior I had never seen before nor knew anything about. Not Robin Hood. Not a tiger that permitted the loud, aggressive, in-your-face roaring he loved so much but could never justify on an ordinary day, bookended by two sisters. And certainly not the adorable pea in a pea pod from his very first Halloween.
No. He wanted his “guy”. And of course “Grammy” would figure it out even though it was all new to me. I worried about the latent violence, but then I was a Flower Child — peace and love and all that.
I always sewed, knitted, or crocheted their costumes. Naturally, his insufferably sweet big sister was either a lacy fairy that fluttered all around as if she could fly off into a magical realm at any moment, or she was a fairy princess with sparkly, glittery “dust” to scatter on the unsuspecting. Liam escaped it. I didn’t.
His little sister was already differentiating herself from silly, girlie stuff.
“Do you want to be a fairy, honey?” I asked five-year-old Clairey.
“No way!” No wands; no wings; no pixie dust. She wanted to be a threatening witch with her cute, pink fingers turned into claws and the highest soprano:“He, he, he, my pretty!”
I took the darkest, blackest cloth I could find, and I sewed the tattered remains of my ebony curtains — courtesy of Whiskers — onto the hem. Once I added a ghoulish pointy hat, she became the spookiest five-year-old I’d ever seen. Clairey just gave a disappointed shrug. “I wish she was blacker, Grammy.”
Not easy being the baby, or a girl.
Before the witch, she was a ghost. The lightest, most ethereal cloth purchased from the bridal department at Fabricland was made into delicate layer upon layer with two peep-holes. Assured it was just right, I floated it over her head only to hear the tiniest words from beneath the divine creation.
“It itches.”
But the “guy” was a challenge. Liam gave me a minuscule picture, certain that a thumbnail sketch was all I needed. It was a human form but cast from metal — maybe silver, like the Tin Man, only unkind and menacing — and with a helmet and flames emanating from his chest. I thought, “Is he on fire, or can his aggression not be contained?”
I scoured fabric stores and found some metallic cloth: silver, smooth and not too shiny. The leg lengths could be cut to fit without fraying that would give away the non-metallic, underlying weave. I found some orange, red, and yellow sheer cloth in the bridesmaid section. Liam need not know.
I could clip the cloth ragged to make flames. I could wrap winter gloves with strips of silver cloth. Those things would do, but the helmet was a challenge. I would need some kind of rounded cap.. And then I found the perfect thing.
Liam loved the final piece. He never knew the helmet of his fierce warrior hid a Mickey Mouse hat with the ears removed. Peace and love, baby.
And yes I did think Van Gogh, briefly, but then I was a Fine Arts major.
- Of Bats and Ravens at the Black Orb, Halloween Fiction – Halloween Short Story
- Trick or Treat Tonight! Or How About a Spooky Sight? – Trick-or-Treating Poetry
- One Small Bite, a Halloween Poem – Vampire-themed Halloween Poetry
- Ghost Talker – a Ghost Story Mystery Review – Paranormal Book Review
Martha Ellen
Martha Ellen lives alone in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast. Retired social worker. History of social justice activism. Worked for the NFWA [Farm Workers] in the 60s. MFA in painting and drawing. Two grown children; four grandchildren - the joys of her life. She writes to make sense of the long and winding road.
