Beakers burbling, fluorescent hum overhead – the air tastes faintly of ozone and curiosity. Today’s subject: Laboratory. The scene is half science fair, half madcap carnival. I wandered through the stainless-steel maze of benches and vents, when suddenly – there he was. A simian scientist in full lab coat and goggles, wielding brain and beaker alike, splashing technicolor discovery across the sterile world.
There’s joy in the chaos here – proof that not all experiments need tidy conclusions. Some fizz, some spark, some spill into unexpected wonder. I imagine this monkey (call him Professor Pokonos, PhD in Mayhem) cackling softly as he perfects the formula for spontaneous delight.
Sometimes, the best breakthroughs take place when you forget what was supposed to happen.
🕯️ #mabsdrawlloweenclub2025 – Day 25: Ghost Rider 🕯️
Out beyond the picket fence and the whispering graves, a pale horse gallops where the road forgets itself. The rider is lighter than smoke, flowing hair tangled in the wind of another world. Moonlight catches in her outline like frost on glass – she doesn’t stir the grass, doesn’t break the quiet, but every dog in town wakes up howling.
Some say she’s chasing something. Others say she’s running from the moment she burned too bright. I just think she’s keeping her appointment – same hour, same path, every October 25th, when the veil thins and the fields hum low.
If you’re lucky, you’ll only see her reflection in the puddles, a shimmer of hooves where no horse rides. If you’re unlucky, you’ll feel the chill before you turn your head.
Either way, wave politely. Ghosts have long memories. 👻🐎💨
The image shows the Signs, Signals, and Codes merit badge from the Boy Scouts of America. This merit badge is awarded to a Scout who demonstrates knowledge and skill in various signaling methods.
The badge’s design features a compass rose, a semaphore signal for the letter “S,” and a stick figure representing a trail sign.
To earn the badge, a Scout must learn about different signaling techniques, including Morse code, American Sign Language (ASL), and semaphore.
The badge also covers other forms of communication such as Braille, trail signs, and traffic signs.
a fuzzy trickster caught mid-sugar heist, in the best orange bucket a ghoul could hope for
🎃 #mabsdrawlloweenclub2025 – Day 24: Candy Creep 🍬
There’s always one little lurker at the bottom of the treat bowl. You know the one – quiet, patient, maybe fuzzy around the edges, with wide, sugar-shocked eyes. Tonight’s “Candy Creep” peeks from behind crinkly wrappers and peppermint armor, waiting for a lull in the trick-or-treat traffic to claim the good stuff.
The Candy Creep isn’t malicious – just opportunistic. A creature born of October’s sweetest chaos, thriving on the scent of caramel and fear of missing out. You might hear it rustle when the porch light flickers, or see a faint shimmer of sugar dust as it darts away, clutching its ill-gotten loot.
It’s said that if you leave an extra candy or two behind at the bottom of the bowl – something bright and wrapped in pink foil – the Candy Creep will count you as a friend. Ignore it, though, and you might find your stash mysteriously light come morning.
Tonight, I’ll be generous. A peace offering of taffy for the lurking small things. There’s room in Halloween for all of us – ghosts, goblins, and the candy creeps who keep the spirit sweet.
Tonight’s forest feels alive with quiet industry – threads stretching from branch to branch, spun silver catching the faintest ember-glow of dusk. Somewhere, in the still air between the trees, a patient architect works. No rush. The night has plenty of time.
There’s something about the organic symmetry of a web – equal parts home and trap, art and alarm system. A good reminder that connections can hold or ensnare, depending on what you bring into them. Every strand hums with potential: dinner, danger, or morning dew.
I sat for a while beneath one tonight, the kind that glimmers just before vanishing into shadow. The forest around looked like it was painted in firelight – trees like matchsticks, the ground a carpet of ember leaves. A small black cat (possibly familiar, possibly just curious) paused to watch the spider work. We both stayed quiet. Some things deserve reverence.
The spider, unbothered by scale or fear, finished her masterpiece – geometry born from instinct. Maybe that’s a kind of magic too: to create because you must, because it’s in your nature.
Stay tangled, friends – in the good way. Find beauty in the patterns you’re part of. The world’s a web, and we’re all shimmering somewhere in its silk.
Walked the Greenway again tonight, that stretch where the trees lean in close like they’re trading secrets. The air was thick with that October damp, leaves halfway to mulch, woodsmoke somewhere far off. I like how the ground gives a little underfoot, like the earth is breathing slow.
Heard something laughing out there. Not loud, just enough to make me stop mid-step. Thought it might have been a fox, or an owl pretending to be one. The sound carried, and for a second, I could have sworn it was human. A voice out past the last light, where the path curls down toward the creek.
Ended up finding a clearing I did not remember. Bone-white posts ringed the spot, old and worn, maybe remnants of a fence. The place felt watched, but not in a bad way. Like the woods were taking attendance.
There was a woman sitting by a crooked stump, wrapped in smoke from a fire I had not noticed until I was almost on top of it. She looked older than the hills, but the kind of old that laughs easily. Said I had wandered into one of her shortcuts. Told me paths have personalities, and some of them pick favorites.
We talked. About the weather turning. About people rushing past what deserves noticing. She poured tea from an old tin pot that did not taste like anything I have ever had, but I felt clearer afterward, like the static between thoughts had burned off.
When I blinked, the fire was gone. So was she. Just me, the trees, and that sense that the trail had rearranged itself while I was not looking.
Made it home before full dark. Still not sure if I met anyone at all. But the woods have been different since. Quieter in some ways. Kinder in others.
Might walk that way again tomorrow, just to see if the path remembers me.
Walked the Greenway again tonight, that stretch where the trees lean in close like they’re trading secrets. The air was thick with that October damp, leaves halfway to mulch, woodsmoke somewhere far off. I like how the ground gives a little underfoot, like the earth is breathing slow.
Heard something laughing out there. Not loud, just enough to make me stop mid-step. Thought it might have been a fox, or an owl pretending to be one. The sound carried, and for a second, I could have sworn it was human. A voice out past the last light, where the path curls down toward the creek.
Ended up finding a clearing I did not remember. Bone-white posts ringed the spot, old and worn, maybe remnants of a fence. The place felt watched, but not in a bad way. Like the woods were taking attendance.
There was a woman sitting by a crooked stump, wrapped in smoke from a fire I had not noticed until I was almost on top of it. She looked older than the hills, but the kind of old that laughs easily. Said I had wandered into one of her shortcuts. Told me paths have personalities, and some of them pick favorites.
We talked. About the weather turning. About people rushing past what deserves noticing. She poured tea from an old tin pot that did not taste like anything I have ever had, but I felt clearer afterward, like the static between thoughts had burned off.
When I blinked, the fire was gone. So was she. Just me, the trees, and that sense that the trail had rearranged itself while I was not looking.
Made it home before full dark. Still not sure if I met anyone at all. But the woods have been different since. Quieter in some ways. Kinder in others.
Might walk that way again tomorrow, just to see if the path remembers me.
The forest tonight looked like it was painted in hush and ember. Trees stood like tall, silent witnesses, their leaves glowing orange as if autumn itself was on fire. The ground shimmered with tiny drifting sparks – fireflies? Falling stars? Little souls on their evening stroll? Hard to tell in a place where the line between the living and the gone gets soft around the edges.
Then I saw them.
A little ghost, pale as moon breath, gliding down the cemetery path with the calm confidence of someone who belongs to the night. No rattling chains. No wailing. Just quiet purpose. In their hand – if you can call that soft curl of ectoplasm a hand – they carried a lantern shaped a bit like a pumpkin, glowing warm and kind.
Not scary. Guiding.
Maybe the lantern wasn’t to light the way for themselves… maybe it was to show the rest of us it’s safe to follow.
The gravestones leaned like old teeth, the crosses cast long shadows, but the ghost didn’t seem lonely. It felt like a caretaker making rounds, checking on friends, keeping the dark gentle. I got the sense that the lantern wasn’t just light – it was memory. A flame for the ones we miss. A soft reminder that even in the quiet places, someone is watching over things.
When the ghost floated deeper into the trees, the orange glow pulsed once, like a heartbeat. The forest exhaled. And I stood there in the purple dusk, grateful that even the smallest lights know how to find their way home.
Some lanterns burn with fire. Some burn with hope. And some… with love that refuses to fade.
Days 20 and 21 of #mabsdrawlloweenclub2025 – Toad and Finned Folk.
Out on the tide rocks tonight, just past where the foam kisses the shore, a curious duet unfolded. A toad, squat and serious, throat ballooning like a semiopaque soap bubble, sang his creaky heart out. Across from him, a mermaid princess perched – scales glimmering like old bottle glass, her copper hair streaming in the sea breeze – listening as though he were the finest bard to ever grace the waves.
It’s a rare thing, land song meeting sea song. But sometimes, under the right sliver of moon, the world forgets where the water ends and where the air begins. Their music rippled across the shallows, drawing minnows and moths alike, everyone pausing for just a breath of wonder.
I like to think they traded secrets after the song – she teaching him how to hum with the tides, he showing her the pleasure of muddy toes.
Small magic happens every day if you sit still long enough to hear it. 🐸🌊✨
Tonight’s forest feels like it’s waiting for something. The rain has a hush to it, falling in silver threads through the pines, and the moon peers down like a lantern hung too high to reach. Out there between the trunks, the mushrooms have gathered again.
They glow faintly – not with light, but with presence. One tall one, cap red as a schoolhouse roof, watches with patient, unblinking eyes. A gentle giant, damp and content, rooted but alive. The smaller ones huddle near its feet like children listening to an old bedtime tale whispered in spores.
Every autumn, the mycelium dreams beneath us – a hidden city of filaments and quiet connections. Maybe that’s why it feels comforting here, even in the drizzle. They’re all talking to each other under the soil, slow and kind, sending messages we can’t read but maybe can feel.
If you listen closely enough, the woods murmur back: rest, grow, return.
Rain on my window tonight smells faintly of moss and stories waiting to sprout.
Evening in the hollow woods, where the pines whisper in two tones – half lullaby, half warning. The moon tonight wears its calmest face, the kind that makes you think of silver ink and midnight margins. Out among the trees, something is reading.
A figure in green, faceless and quiet, holds open a tome that hums softly in a language older than moth wings. The pages don’t quite turn – more like they breathe, each sigil exhaling a faint lavender light. It smells faintly of ozone and candle wax, the way old magic always does.
There’s a circle on the ground, drawn not in chalk but in patience, etched by someone who still believes in doorways. Symbols spiral inward, neat as a clock’s gears, glowing brighter as the spellbook’s words rise to meet them.
If you listen (and the woods are good at listening), you can almost hear the question whispered from ink to flame to air: *What is remembered, and what is invented?*
Under the crooked crescent moon, deep in the birchwood where the trees whisper secrets and the air tastes faintly of iron and moss, there she is – Baba Yaga herself, shuffling about her yard of bones. The fence rattles with skulls that grin too knowingly, and the scent of green bubbling brew drifts out like a memory you’d rather forget.
Her hut, of course, perches proudly on chicken legs – restless, fidgeting, ready to stomp or spin away at a moment’s notice. You can almost hear the creak of wood and feathered shuffle as it shifts, like it’s got opinions about who’s visiting tonight.
Baba Yaga isn’t your standard witch – she’s the test at the edge of the world. The wild grandmother. The forest’s own enforcer. She’ll feed you stew or feed you *to* the stew, depending on how polite you are and whether you remembered to bring a proper gift. Sometimes she helps heroes, sometimes she devours them, and sometimes she just laughs until dawn.
In the glow of her cauldron, I like to think she’s cooking up more than trouble – maybe just a potion for the long cold months ahead, or a little something to keep the house’s joints from creaking too loudly in the frost. The bones, the skulls, the mushrooms – decor for a witch who knows exactly where the boundaries are, because she built them herself.
Sweet dreams from the Slavic side of the forest tonight. Watch your step – and if the trees start leaning in to listen, best bow low and keep walking.
