(Believe it or not, I started this as a short story in 2016. My goal was to write about human eating pumpkins in a sort of Grimm’s fairy tale kind of way. It never got to that point, but here it is as flash fiction.)
I know what you’re thinking. It’s something along the line of “no way, there are not human eating pumpkins. They don’t exist. Quite fooling around.” Trust me when I say they do exist. You don’t have to believe me. I don’t really care. I know what I saw. I know what I heard. I know what I felt. I know what I smelled long after the pumpkins banded together and left the remaining victims to die. There were few survivors, and if you haven’t figured it out already, you can lump me into that pile.
My name is not important. I’m not handing it out so you can’t stop wondering if I will say it. I’m never giving it to you no matter how much you beg either. All you need to know is there are some pumpkin patches that like the taste of flesh. I’m not going to say they prefer one type of skin over the other. They are equal opportunists. They don’t care what color you are. They don’t care how tall you are. They don’t care how heavy you are. They only care about catching someone and like it when you hear your own bones crunching between their large teeth.
If you live anywhere near a tiny town called True Wisdom, start being afraid. This is where my parents were born, where I was born, where my siblings were born, and where my children will be born if I ever make it through another year. You ask yourself why I don’t move. Tell me where? How? When? With who? Besides, I’m too comfortable here despite having to fight to stay alive during the last day of October. You see this is the time when pumpkins are given free rein to eat as many humans as possible. Call it a compromise. Call it weeding out the weak so the strong get stronger.
Some pumpkins die every year, but the survivors come back with a vengeance. The one that chased me was about at big as I’ve ever seen and it moved faster than the previous year. Luck was on my side when it didn’t see the pitch fork. It ran right into it at such a high-speed that surviving it wasn’t going to happen. I watched its insides spill out, and as it was moaning I gave it a good kick in the head. A dead pumpkin makes this town a little safer. Only followers want leaders, and I’m their new leader now. It’s always been that same. You either live or die. There is no middle ground.