Something special this Halloween night for you, our dear reader. I wasn’t planning on any short stories, as Halloween is covered very well in the book series. It wouldn’t be safe to share without stepping on the story itself. But, Sly lives in my head, and sometimes, he triggers ideas, like a character muse.

So, today, I present Sly, scripting his own story. He is a big fan of written words after all. Please enjoy Sly’s mind this special night, when the ghosts blend as easy as the living.

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Sly, Soulful Bar, Halloween 2013

“I never remember the story, but I always remember the closing speech.” Tweety gathered herself and slid my copy of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream back to me.

“Soliloquy,” I supplied, trying to keep my intellectual focus. I realized my miscalculation early. The rest of the night was bidding my time to outlast it. 

“You and your SAT words at 3 am.” Tweety laughed, shaking her head. “Speech, soliloquy, epilogue. Whatever you call it, it’s memorable. I might not recall it perfectly, but it’s stuck up there good.” She pointed to her head, sliding off the stool she’d occupied for the last hour or so. “Time for me to try that slumbering bit again. Have a good night Sly.”

This night, Tweety’s mood had been extra bright, covering her painful past. The conversation about the Brawny man, whom only I knew to be Greg, the future Soulful co-owner in the making, and that article about Woods and whatever number girlfriend that sounded like it might lead to an engagement since he made more months with them? Of course she wasn’t going to sleep tonight. I’d known exactly when to expect her return.

So, I did what I always do, prepared the cocoa and the sleepy tea. This time I put a higher dose of the sleepy stuff in both drinks. Greg was a new element that changed her slightly, not enough to register, but enough to throw off my guess. And she needed the rest. I worked overnight, so after Tweety went to bed, I was pretty much alone until deliveries. That worked fine, just tonight I would be slower. Groggy. 

I put the cups from our sleep laced drinks in the sink, and slid onto the stool, picking up the book again. It was a great play, I had worn the pages in, reading it so often. One more read of the ending, just to debate the ending speech’s function with Tweety next time.

That’s what I told myself.

 “That grandson of mine, Greg really showed some spirit, let his feelings free.” Gus appeared before my bar, looking like Gus, but not quite. Like he’d dressed up with the Renaissance fair group this Halloween. But that was impossible, he’d been with his family at home, hadn’t he? “My little Lysander is growing into himself, don’t you think? Almost ready to be worthy of that Hermia.”

I flipped the page, trying to catch on here. “Tweety? I think Greg is more of a Demetrius, but there’s no Helena is there?” 

I was talking to myself, to the empty bar, wasn’t I?

Except, it felt like there were answers. Like the ghosts put on a show for me, to see the play in this very bar world. 

“True love isn’t smooth” The Gus I recalled talking to many lonely nights whispered into the night, like a narrator offstage. “But cupid uses his smarts not just eyes to make matches work.”

Tweety appeared as Hermia, sharing the story of Greg as the Brawny man. Patrons asked about Woods, as they always do, and his long forgotten presence danced in the shadows, a Demetrius with distance. The multi-colored haired woman chasing after him looked suspiciously like the girlfriend in the article. A Helena?

This version of Shakespeare played out in the middle of the bar, no need for a forest. All I wanted was a debatable answer for Gus, but the whole thing played out. Nira’s steampunk oddly fit in with the time period, and he looked like an Oberon, play fighting with Bebe, his Titania. But who was Puck? 

“Hey Sly, help me with that article?” Fairy King Nira slipped in front of me at the bar. “The girls all swear that it’s a trick and Woods loves Tweety, not the girlfriend.”

I felt myself pondering this, scribbling notes, but I couldn’t make it out. I heard myself speak in a way I never would. “Fools, all these foolish mortals taking sides be.” 

Then the whole bar was alive with the usual crew, Collar, Bebe, Malta and Frost. Collar’s head turned into a donkey, and Bebe tackled him in the way she usually reserves for Nira.

Frost’s Scottish brogue commented on the scene, “Passion distorts reality doesn’t it? Makes lunatics look like lovers and poets.”

“If we shadows have offended…” I mumbled, answering Frost, answering the shapes.

Something started to lick my face. And a hand started to pat me on the back.

“Hey, Bat man, you ok?”

I opened my eyes and removed Roger the lynx from my face. The cat man Deej stood beside me, his furry ears sticking up like usual. 

“When did you guys get here?”

Deej shrugged, “when you talked about shadows, and dream themes?” He moved to the coffee pot and touched it. “Did you fall asleep making coffee? Aren’t you the shadow man?”

I shook off the visions, grabbing a rag to wash away the cat saliva. “I’m Sly, not the shadow man. Just because I scare you moving around the bar, that doesn’t make me a shadow.”

Ignoring me, Deej fiddled around with the cabinets, looking for a cup I hoped. I got up and shooed him away, grabbing cups for us both, and a bowl for Roger. I then poured us varying amounts of coffee and milk. Mine darkest, Deej’s middle and Roger got all milk. A yawn stole it’s way out of me.

“Oh, I get it. Were you high? I can’t swear I didn’t leave a brownie somewhere I shouldn’t have. But you look like you ate it…”  Deej spoke too much, holding the bowl for Roger so Sly didn’t yell about the mess the cat’s lapping made.

“I am not high.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, and grabbed the copy of the play, holding it to my chest. “I just had a dream within a dream.”