In the heart of a sprawling pumpkin patch, nestled among rows of his brothers and sisters, sat a plump pumpkin named Patch. For weeks, he had felt the warmth of the autumn sun and the cool, crisp air rustling through the vines. But as October crept closer, Patch began hearing whispers of an event that filled him with dread.
“Carving season is near,” the older pumpkins murmured, their voices trembling with unease.
Patch didn’t know what carving season was, but the way the others spoke of it made his insides churn. One by one, his fellow pumpkins disappeared, plucked from their cozy homes by eager hands. It wasn’t long before Patch’s time came.
One chilly morning, Patch felt a firm grip wrap around his stem, and he was lifted into the air. His heart raced as he was carried to a waiting truck. The other pumpkins around him looked nervous, but no one spoke a word. As they drove away from the patch, Patch noticed the landscape changing—no more wide fields, no more sheltering vines. Instead, rows of houses lined the streets, their windows flickering with the orange glow of lights.
Patch was soon set down on a wooden table in a cozy kitchen, surrounded by strange tools: spoons, markers, and—most terrifying of all—knives. His orange skin prickled with fear as he realized what was about to happen.
A child appeared, eager to begin the carving. Patch watched helplessly as the child’s hand gripped a knife, its blade gleaming in the soft light of the kitchen. Panic surged within him as the sharp edge pressed against his flesh. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. Slowly, carefully, the child began to carve, each slice sending a shudder through Patch’s body.
The first cut was a small one, a triangle for an eye. Patch’s fear grew with each passing moment as more shapes were carved into him—another eye, a jagged mouth. He could feel himself being hollowed out, his insides scooped and scraped away. The sensation was terrifying, and he longed to return to the safety of the pumpkin patch, where no knives glistened with malice.
As the sun set, Patch found himself placed on the front porch. His carved face now stared out at the quiet street, and though the carving was complete, the ordeal wasn’t over. A candle was placed inside him, and its flame flickered to life, casting a warm glow through the hollow spaces of his new face.
At first, the light was a comfort, its warmth spreading through his hollow body. But as darkness fell, Patch felt something new. The children came, dressed in strange costumes, giggling and laughing as they approached. They marveled at Patch, pointing at his glowing face with glee.
Though he had been terrified of the knives and the carving, Patch realized something had changed. He wasn’t just a pumpkin anymore—he was a jack-o’-lantern. And as the children admired his glowing face, Patch felt a strange pride. He had survived the carving, and now he lit up the night, his fear fading away with each flicker of the candle inside him.
For the rest of the evening, Patch stood proudly on the porch, watching as children came and went, their faces lighting up with delight. He realized that being carved wasn’t something to fear after all. He was no longer just a pumpkin—he was a beacon of Halloween, glowing bright for all to see.
