I just got home from Autumn Fest, and the question has been answered. If you recall, I was wondering if I was a creepy storyteller, or a storyteller who told creepy stories — and the answer is a resounding YES!
I spray painted my hair black, drenched myself in white pancake makeup, drew red-rimmed black circles around my eyes, applied black lipstick and a generous amount of red cherry syrup blood to my chin, neck and throat; then lead a rather macabre dinner party. On the menu was fresh beating heart, finger sandwiches containing fingers (of course), eyeball salad, fresh bread with spiced blood sauce, and boiled brain.
As my guests sat at this feast I introduced my various children: Julia Child-Eater, our chef; Headless Nick, my clumsy son who accidently decapitated himself, yet still managed to help capture dinner; Rachill Raybidous who choked to death on an ankle bone (I always told her she should tear the feet off the babies before eating their legs, but that girl never did listen to her mother. She isn’t here tonight and I hope for your sake [shine penlight on smallest girl-child in the room] she doesn’t show up); and my youngest son, Jaws, who hunts with a chainsaw and can catch any two legged prey [shine penlight on some boy in the audience] and have it on your plate before it’s heart stops beating [shine penlight on the beating heart on the meat platter].
As my monologue comes to a close I tell my guests the feast is about to begin, then suggest they sit back in their chairs and prepare — to be eaten! Muhahahahahaha! I jump out of my chair cackling like a demented witch, Julia comes charging in with a huge, bloody meat cleaver, two black robed figures sneak up on people in the dark and grab them, and Jaws appears with a roaring chainsaw and starts chasing screaming children.
We performed the show 10 times in just under three hours. My throat hurts. My demented witch cackle now sounds more like a croaking frog with laryngitis, and I am pleasantly exhausted.
There were some memorable terrified child moments — like the kid who tried to climb his dad’s face and used Dad’s top lip for a hand grip. The child that left screaming when the stobelight hit me and I breathed, “Welcome to my dinner party …” and followed with a maniacal laugh. And the kid — one of my students last year — who, when I towered over him while laughing like a fiend, stood up, put his arms around me in a hug and said, “Hi, Ms. A., I’ve missed you.”
I think my all time favorite moment was when “Julia’s” second grade daughter freaked out. Following her mother’s instinct “Julia” went to comfort her — only problem was, she had a 12 inch machete gleaming in blood, wore clothes splattered in blood, and had on a hideous grey pancake makeup. Her daughter was less than comforted when that “mommy” reached for her.
All in all the night was a resounding $ucce$$.