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You’re 14 and it’s a week after Halloween, the first one where your mom didn’t help you with your costume. You had to scramble up spare parts from the Army Surplus store and your grandmother’s basement, and you were either a robot, a spaceman, or a drill press. You’ve eaten all the good candy, and all that’s left is candy corn, a rotting apple, and a handful of Charleston Chews. You steel your tongue against the disappointment to come, and reach for a Charleston Chew. But it isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. This isn’t bad at all. You’re gonna start buying Charleston Chews, you think. But Wendy down the street left her window open and is parading around her room in underwear you only ever dreamed of seeing, and Charleston Chews are out of your mind forever, gone the way of lincoln logs, snow forts, and discreetly humping your pillow. And anyway, you’re too old to go trick-or-treating.
Aug 27, 2013
1 min read
Musings on youth and nostalgia in 200 words or less.