bitterdiva

The pumpkin king

Linearly placed in rows, resembling robust, dwarfish soldiers, the patch of pumpkins greeted me as their orange flesh contrasted against the brittle, green grass. Aflame by the warm, coruscating rays of the October sun, the vibrancy of these stout squash excited the dormant child within me. With a sheepish grin and gleam in my eyes, I bee-lined directly for my favorite fall decoration, determined to find the perfect jack-o-lantern. The acquirement of a pumpkin should only occur at a well-respected orchard or farm and not at an establishment known for their American-made, mass-produced cut-rate wares.

The patch was surrounded by a grove of trees ablaze with incandescent hues of reds, oranges, and yellows. The ground was still soft underneath my feet despite the past week of frost that beset the land. I knelt down beside a contender; my hand ran along the short span of the stem, prickled by the jaggedness of the dried-out lifeline to the vine that curled around in a “Q”. Orchard workers are quite similar to obstetricians, I remarked; the workers know the proper position of severing these beautiful fruit from their umbilical cords in a fashion that replicates a pig’s curly tail. My hand tingled, I turned over my palm to reveal a series of small indents and cuts around the fleshy part, the vine was too rough and I moved on.

Having been left outside, these hearty soldiers were cool to the touch, and despite the ridges, their flesh was smooth with the occasional imperfect bump. Some of these soldiers were not as fortunate as others; there were some with cuts, bruises, and dents. The cuts scabbed over with a thick light-brown crust and rot sank in with the more atrocious indentations. However ghastly their appearance might have been, the un-chosen would not become victims of pumpkincide as their flesh is brutally butchered, carved, and their innards ripped out and thrown in a trashcan.

Peering off in the distance, amidst the orange expanse, I discovered their general, the great pumpkin king. He was flanked by subordinate gourds, inclined in admiration of their majesty. His stem, unlike the others, was still vigorous as it was predominantly green. Enduring the occasional loss of men to the cause of seasonal celebration, the king remained gallantly poised, watchful of his brave soldiers.

In an attempt to disband this army, I crouched down in preparation of displacing the proud king away from his soldiers. The frigid, mucky soil enveloped my hands as I squeezed them underneath his mass, properly positioned for lifting. As I began to separate the king from his earthly throne, my arms spasmed from his immense girth. I relinquished my hold, straightened his positioning, and stood up from the ground. At that moment, the wind gusted across the patch rustling the fallen leaves surrounding me, and it was there, in that brief moment, I heard the chortle of pumpkins rejoicing in their king’s freedom.

My mission was not a complete failure; for although I went home that evening sans pumpkin, I gained a new respect for the brightly-colored gourd. Perhaps it would be the first time that I carved one of the new Styrofoam pumpkins instead of butchering innocent ones purely for my own amusement. I am not certain that the pumpkin king remained safe on his earthly throne that day, but I am certain that I gained the respect of a hundred vibrant soldiers.

07:28 PM

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