. . .

Festival (rewrite of Fine Night)

It was Festival time again, and everyone was wondering what the showpiece would be. The Joneses gossipped about it with the Stodgers, and the Stodgers with the Harraldsens, and the Harraldsens with the Montagues. The Montagues, who were in on it, just smiled secretly, and refused to tell any of the details when pressed. "It's a surprise!" they said. "You wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, would you?" And then they went back to the barn to spend more time helping with the preparations for the party.

"I can't wait!" said Becky Samuels to her latest beau, Jonathan C. Perron. The C. in his name stood for Carmen, a fact which he hid as best he could. "I bet this year they'll set up a rollercoaster!"

"There isn't enough room in there for any size rollercoaster, and if they were building it out back we'd have seen something. I think there'll be fireworks."

"They did fireworks four years back. They never repeat, you should know that."

Jonathan, who had forgotten, blushed and mumbled something noncommital. This event was to cause Becky to drop Jonathan in favor of George Rigby. Jonathan, in his turn, in grief over Becky's loss, turned to the comfort of his best friend, Martha Jeremy. The two would be married two years later.

At any rate, everyone spent the time making their own preparations, and when the big day finally arrived, aside from a small open area around the barn, the entirety of the Festival property was covered in attractions, ranging from the Twinn family's fresh and tasty homemade cookies and cakes to the Marchelson's small roller coaster setup (Frank Marchelson had been a roller coaster designer for an outfit on Coney Island some years ago) to Reginald Hawkins's one man comedy show on a rickety stage built for him by the Hammens, who had also built their own massive trampoline next to him, to Becky Samuels's kissing booth - this got a _lot_ of attention from the males in town, and almost as much from the females married to the males, whose glares could be felt a hundred feet away. Still, however, the barn remained locked away, as people's excitement built to a fever pitch.

Finally, at nine or so, the sky was completely dark. It didn't matter, as the whole Festival grounds were lit to the point where it seemed nearly like day. A full moon hung low in the sky as Deirdre Sargent, the person chosen by lot to arrange the showpiece this year, stepped out onto the rather firmer built center stage where a long series of acts had been playing all evening. Dierdre was short and muscular. Her long brown hair was normally a series of knots and tangles, but today it fell straight down her back to midthigh (a few members of the audience remarked unkindly to each other that she must have hired someone to fix it for her, and spent large sums of money to do it). Dierdre was the town's token artist, having sold artpieces to locals at Festivals and smaller fairs for years, even occasionally going as far as the state capital. This made her a "traveller", and not entirely trusted by the town. She always seemed to have a strange glint in her mismatched eyes - one slightly larger than the other, which gave gave her a lopsided appearance. A hush settled down over the audience as they waited for her presentation.

"Friends," she said, "I'm not really good at public speaking. I like to think that what I've done will speak for itself. It's in the barn. I hope you all appreciate it properly." With that, she ceremoniously unlocked the doors and opened them slightly, enough for one person to enter at a time. The residents slowly filed inside.

Inside the barn was a sofa. It was spotlit, a single island of light in the darkness inside the barn. It was a dark red-brown leather, with inset offwhite buttons, with the legs and arms made of the same offwhite (ivory?) substance. A very faint scent of rot hung in the air. Nobody moved, waiting for something exciting to happen.

Finally, Dr. Samuels, Becky's father, stepped forward. "This is it? A crummy sofa?" He turned contempuously to the crowd. "See, this is what happens when so-called artists try to fix up Festival. I'm sorry that you had to see this shoddy example of a centerpiece, and I promise that when I get picked, I'll make sure that we get more than a... a... damn chair!" He turned back to the sofa and punched it, hard, to make a point.

The leather where he had punched split. Reddish liquid oozed out, and inside could clearly be seen the face of Arthur Hardleson, who had, along with his family, been missing for much of the last few weeks. Everyone had assumed they were preparing for Festival. Clearly, they had, instead, been prepared. On further examination, it became apparent that the sofa was make of the flayed and tanned skins of Arthur and his wife, Emily, the legs and arms had been made from their bones, and the inset buttons were made from the bones of Farrel, the Hardleson's two year old son.

Afterwards, everyone agreed that it had been the best festival ever, ad that they couldn't wait to see how they'd top it next year.