Skeleton Costume Quotes

Yet who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms, Who has not fed upon what belongs to the grave?What matters the perfume, the costume or the dress? He who shows disgust believes that he is handsome.  Noseless dancer, irresistible whore, Tell those dancing couples who act so offended: "Proud darlings, despite the art of makeup You all smell of death! Skeletons perfumed with musk,

I’m sorry,” said the kitty. “I’ve wrecked your broomstick ride.” “No matter,” said Witch Mildred. “We’re here. Let’s go inside!” The clock atop the castle read twenty after eight, but the promised buffet table held only emptied plates! “No eye or newt? No sautéed slug? No pickleworm pate? No casserole of cockroach! No spiderweb soufflé! Those greedy gobbling goblins left zilch for us to eat.” Said the starving skeleton, “Why don’t we trick-or-treat?” They passed a lighted cottage, from which rose song and laughter. The mummy boldly rang the bell, All others traipsing after. The children squealed and giggled as they greeted their new guests, for of all the trick-or-treaters, these costumes were the best! The hostess asked the callers to join them at their party. “Check out this spread!” the mummy said. The hostess said, “Eat hearty.” “Taffy apples! Candy corn! Purple punch, ice-cold! My tongue’s not touched such tastiness since I was six years old!” In the corner of the kitchen Witch Mildred found a mop. “I think this will do nicely while my broom is in the shop.” “May I, please?” asked Mildred, and seated her new friends. With a loud “Thank you!” away they flew, in loopy swoops and bends. That night Witch Mildred dreamed of cakes and lemonade, but far more sweet than party treats were the friendships she had made!

Mr. Schwartz locked the front door of his shop, then led the boys into a rear room. It was so filled with costumes of all kinds and paraphernalia for theatrical work, plus piles of cartons, that Frank and Joe wondered how the man could ever find anything. “Here is today’s shipment,” Mr. Schwartz said, pointing to six cartons standing not far from the rear entrance to his shop. Together he and the boys slit open the boxes and one by one lifted out a king’s robe, a queen’s tiara, and a Little Bopeep costume. Suddenly Mr. Schwartz said: “Here’s a skeleton marked size thirty-eight. Would one of you boys mind trying it on?” Frank picked up the costume, unzipped the back, and stepped into the skeleton outfit. It was tremendous on him and the ribs sagged ludicrously. “Guess a fat man modeled for this,” he remarked, holding the garment out to its full width.

Stop daydreaming and listen to the story of how Benjamín lost all his hair. “One spring morning, a circus wagon painted like a carriage from the funeral parlor pulled by two skeletal horses decorated with black plumes passed along our street, heading for the town square. A man wearing a skeleton costume held the reins. Next to him sat a female dwarf dressed as the Angel of the Last Judgment, playing a sad melody on an old trumpet. Attracted by their sinister looks, we ran to see the performance.

His skeleton face paint isn't worn as it was meant to be - a Halloween costume. No, it's like it's a part of him, showing me his inner self, but more so the sinister things he would willingly do to keep me. That even in death, he would claim me and drag me to the afterlife with him to ensure our unbreakable bond. He is mine, and I am his.

Imagine someone in a skeleton costume. The costume is innocuous inasmuch as it is mere fantasy of dead bones over a living body of flesh. But, of course, there is a skeleton beneath that living body of flesh. Just as the skeleton is a costume over the flesh, the flesh is a costume over the skeleton. Flesh dies and reveals the skeleton, as if the skeleton is the death to come that is already inside the living flesh.

For my entire life, it was October twenty-fourth, just a week before Halloween and usually involving costumes and skeleton decorations and candy.

The arts also fail me. Words I know too well to trust. The skeleton of grammar creates a wall that wards off sensation. Sex can only be described sequentially, one stroke after another. Vocabulary discerns distinctions, just as hormones sand down such matters. The visual arts frame things so that they are safe. Dance is the twitching of the body of one species. Music, I still retain hope for music, that bath of sound that words can barely describe and seldom add to. Music echoes with the bark, the grunt, the trilling, the scream, the explosion of the volcano, the purring of the stream. Art seems less an open door than a gilded cage. Van Gogh painted about three hundred canvases during his year in that nut house. The others, the splattering expressionists and impressionists and cubists and dada folk and surrealists, they’re safe. A dripping clock can never punch you in the face like crows rising off a wheat field. I think most of human art and all of human costume results from our notorious discomfort with our own skins.

some guy had an impressively realistic skeleton costume under his Inverness cape and deerstalker, and a nametag that said Sherlock Bones.

His skeleton face paint isn't worn as it was meant to be - a Halloween costume. No, it's like a part of him, showing me his inner self, but more so the sinister things he would willingly do to keep me. That even in death, he would claim me and drag me to the afterlife with him to ensure our unbreakable bond. He is mine, and I am his.