A million people come to Salem every October to play witch for a day. I don't need the costume. Come find me before the ghost tours do?
A million people come to Salem every October to play witch for a day. I don't need the costume. Come find me before the ghost tours do?
Steel drums, conch fritters, and a dress that's already losing its fight with the humidity. First plate is mine — come claim the second?
Gates opened ten minutes ago and I already own the prettiest garlic braid here — first pick is a skill, not luck. Come carry it for me, my hands are full.
This canvas has to be dry before the festival gates open, and clothes were just slowing me down. Stay until it dries?
The chowder's hot, the harbor wind is not, and my sweater keeps losing ground by the minute. I've decided to let it. Come stand on my wind side?
The whole sky is filling up with balloons and I claimed my spot before the crowds even woke up. It's cold enough out here that I'm keeping this blanket exactly where I want it — unless you'd rather I didn't. Coming to stand with me?
The patch opened an hour ago and I've already claimed the biggest, most stubborn pumpkin in the field — naturally. Come carry it for me?
The vines are mine and the festival hasn't started pouring yet. Wristband on, glass in hand — I don't wait in lines. Tell me you brought a second glass.
Five pours into a tasting that comes with a painting demo, and the wine is winning. Come take the seat across from me before the artist signs my bottle.
The last barrels of the harvest festival are mine tonight, and I've never been good at sharing. Convince me you've earned a taste.