Fall weather continues to evade the California valley. In fact, I got my first serious sunburn of the year this Tuesday when it was (wait for it…) 91 degrees outside!
While I’m nursing my wounds and mourning the lack of decent weather I continue to harbor fantasies of a real fall somewhere in the world.
Meanwhile, Charlie has told me every single day for the past 5 days that “it’s Halloween tonight.”
At least someone is feeling the fall spirit.
In honor of approaching holidays, and in honor of my genuine love for pumpkins and everything else that I like about cold weather, I give you this week’s flash fiction piece:
Emotional Support Gourd
Jill N Davies
Cole Matherson made the entire 15-minute trip home with a giant pumpkin on his lap and a beaming smile spread across his face. It was a perfect day, maybe even magical. The second-grade class went to the pumpkin patch. There was a corn maze, a scarecrow building contest, caramel apples and then, the best part of all— he got to walk the patch until he found the perfect pumpkin to take home and carve.
Cole’s cheeks were reddened by the blazing fall sun and chapped by wind that carried the whispers of cooler weather into the afternoon. When his mom said he looked like a sun kissed wildling, he’d merely nodded, hoisting his behemoth of a squash into the van and clambering in after it. He lifted it gingerly into his lap and hugged it. His mom asked about the adventure, but Cole barely answered. He was too busy thinking about the day. More specifically, he was thinking about what the pumpkin said to him when no one else was around.
“Hi, I’m Gourd!”
Faced with the task of carving a pumpkin, Cole had two dilemmas. First, he wanted to do something that couldn’t be found on a stencil. Second, he didn’t want to murder his pumpkin—if that was a thing. Not daring to touch his tools until he was certain, Cole rested his chin on the table so that his face was level with the pumpkin and said, “Gourd? My name is Cole.”
Nothing happened. In the background he heard his mom in the kitchen working on dinner.
He waited.
He was nearly certain the whole thing was his imagination running amok when the same small voice said, “Well Cole, you gonna get started or what?”
“I knew it!” Cole gasped, hands flying to either side of his head. “Ohmigosh, you can talk! I have a talking pumpkin.”
“Yep. All pumpkins can talk. But only some kids can hear us,” Gourd said.
“What about grownups?” Cole asked.
“Never grownups!”
“Not even the cool ones? Like Uncle Earnie?”
“Not even Earnie,” Gourd confirmed.
“Woa.” This was special. “What should I do, Gourd?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t want to murder you…” Cole said, scrunching up his face.
“That’s ridiculous! You can’t murder a pumpkin,” Gourd said.
“Not even by cutting you open and scooping out your guts?” Cole asked, eyes wide.
“They’re seeds,” Gourd corrected.
“What about the stringy stuff?” Cole asked.
“It’s stringy pumpkin stuff. That’s just what I’m made of.”
“But will it hurt?” Cole asked.
“Nope. Pumpkins don’t have nerves. Or brains,” Gourd said.
Cole thought about that. He wasn’t sure how a pumpkin without a brain could be talking.
“How….”
“It’s best to not think too hard about it,” Gourd said.
Cole picked up the big saw-tool with the jagged edges and paused.
“But what if you’re wrong?”
“Well, then I guess I’ll scream until the pain is too much and I’m swallowed by eternal silence.”
Cole’s jaw dropped. The saw fell from his hands and clattered on the ground. He scrambled to pick it up, tipping his chair over its axis and losing his balance. He fell, all arms and legs flailing while Gourd cackled.
“I’m kidding! I promise, I won’t feel a thing.”
Cole tentatively poked his head up to look at the pumpkin’s faceless front.
“That’s a bad joke,” he said.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” Gourd said, still chuckling.
Cole retrieved his supplies, lining them up next to the pumpkin.
“I wasn’t going to do a face, but do you want a face? You know, to go with your voice and stuff?” Cole asked.
“Nah, I don’t need a face. I’ve never had one before, so why would I need one now. Go ahead with your original plan. What’s it going to be? A black cat? Vampire fangs? Happy Halloween with flying bats?” Gourd asked.
Cole fiddled with the saw, looking down at his dirt-stained sneakers. “I was gonna do a dragon…” he mumbled.
“A dragon? That’s awesome. Do a dragon!” Gourd gushed.
“Okay,” Cole said, offering a meek smile.
He sawed off the top of the pumpkin and scooped the seeds and stringy pumpkin stuff, following Gourd’s coaching to get in there good. He was bolstered by the fact that Gourd seemed downright delighted with the carving process.
When the pumpkin was good and clean, and the dragon was etched on the face with a sharpie, Cole picked up one of the smaller precision tools and put it up against the fat black line. The metal edge sat there for a long moment.
“What are you waiting for?” Gourd asked.
Cole looked down, suddenly bashful again. “Well, I don’t want to mess you up.”
“Mess me up?”
“I’m not that good at carving. Every year I get an idea, and every year it ends up not looking right…” Cole blushed.
“Hold the vine, little dude. Doesn’t look right says who?” Gourd asked.
“It doesn’t look like the picture, or what I have in my head,” Cole explained.
“Aw, come on little dude—you’ve got to give yourself some slack. You’re what, 7?”
“And a half,” Cole said.
“And you came up with this dragon all by yourself?” Gourd asked.
“It’s Smaug.”
“But you drew the picture, right?”
“Yeah,” Cole admitted.
“Well then I’m already a million times cooler than some stencil pumpkin!” Gourd said.
“Really?” Cole asked.
“Heck yeah! C’mon, get in there and make me a dragon!” Gourd exclaimed with enough enthusiasm to sweep Cole away.
His first couple cuts were tentative, but under the direction and encouragement of Gourd, he carved with confidence. Forty minutes later, Cole presented the coolest dragon pumpkin anyone had ever seen. His parents gushed over it, making Cole blush.
All night long he heard other trick-or-treaters comment on the awesome dragon pumpkin on Gale St., but for Cole, the only opinion that really mattered was Gourd’s.
The End
Don’t have time to read? I’ll read it to you on IGTV!
Want something with a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my entries:
Hungry for more?
I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today
If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com
Tune in next week for more Flash Fiction.
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