Hello All:
Today is the last day of the Halloween triduum. I hope everyone has had a wonderful celebration.
Today's short story is one that has been published to blog posts throughout the years. It's a story my father used to tell us... although I added my own personal touch to it. He didn't go into the details of the gruesome decorating of the Jack-o-Lantern.
The Jack-o-Lantern After Halloween
One crisp autumn afternoon, a family picked him. He was lifted gently from the earth and carried home, his heart pounding with excitement. But his joy turned to terror when a butcher knife was violently plunged into his top.
The child’s father quickly intervened. "Whoa, whoa—what are you doing? You’ll cut yourself if you stab it like that!"
The pumpkin sighed in relief, but his reprieve was short-lived. More cutting awaited him. His top was peeled back, and he was flipped upside down. His guts were scooped out in slow, agonizing handfuls, splattering onto the kitchen table. The mother collected the seeds, spreading them onto a baking sheet before sliding them into the oven.
Then, the knife returned—this time to his side. Shapes were carved into his flesh as the children giggled with delight. The pumpkin writhed in pain, unaware that his suffering was transforming him.
Suddenly, he could see! Eyes appeared in his carved face. A nose took shape, allowing him to breathe in the scent of autumn. Ears formed, letting him hear the children’s laughter. A mouth opened, though he had no words—only a silent scream.
It was then that the pumpkin realized: he was becoming a jack-o’-lantern.
That night, he was placed outside with the other decorations. A candle was lit inside him, casting a warm, flickering glow. He marveled at the sensation—no longer cold, no longer alone. He made friends with the other jack-o’-lanterns and the grinning skeletons, chatting with them under the moonlight.
Halloween arrived, and trick-or-treaters gathered at the door. "Wow! Look at that jack-o’-lantern! Great carving!" they exclaimed.
The pumpkin glowed with pride.
But as the night deepened, the candle flickered and died. The air grew colder. He waited, shivering, for the next flame to bring warmth. It never came.
Days passed. The decorations vanished, packed away into attics. The pumpkin’s flesh grew moldy, his once-bright grin sagging into rot. By the weekend, he was tossed into the trash.
On garbage day, the truck hauled him to the city dump. He sat in a pile of refuse, the wind howling around him. Tears welled in his hollow eyes.
Then—movement. Mice scurried nearby, their tiny paws skittering over broken glass and crumpled paper. They heard his quiet sobs. Curious, they investigated and discovered the holes carved into his sides. One by one, they climbed inside.
The mice made themselves at home. They lit a small fire in his hollowed-out belly, warming the air around them. The pumpkin sighed in relief. For the first time since his carving, he felt safe.
And so, as winter’s chill set in, the mice and the pumpkin shared warmth together—friends bound by fate, finding light in the darkest of places.
