To be or not to be a Jack-o-lantern, that is the question.

By Nora James Eikner

Artwork by Elena Campos

Take a rare glimpse into the last documented diary entry of beloved writer among the gourd community, William J. Shakespumpkin.

Double double toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble
The carving knife is sharp and clean
To Pumpkin’s horror on Halloween

Doth shined the light on dawning day that I was picked and primped for selling. Bold, smooth orange coated my livery, topped with a sturdy cap of juniper. Each day was more lovely and more temperate than the next, content in its mundanity. Yet, as I glimpsed the changing leaves, I found my companions were disappeared, one by one snatched with a simple point and paper exchange, until I alone, it seemed, was left in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes. The night’s burglary of light consumed me, and there I sat, cold and inconsolable, a pumpkin without a home on Hallow’s Eve. 

Yet out of my trembling slumber I arose to find the lark at break of day arising, a finger pointed at me! Finally heaven’s gate opened! Huzzah! My soul was saved and home was nearing, closer than it had ever seemed. 

Grumbling engines and whining wheels echoed until there was an abrupt stop. A slight chill in the air pricked at the skin of my stem as large hands restrained me. This so-called home lacked any essence of hope and instead greeted me with creaking steps and trembling, off-pitch wind chimes. Didst thou maketh this grim house, oh heavenly Lord? Or was this the work of some devilish creature from the depths of darkest hell? I, a pumpkin of true faith, pray no longer to enter this foul place, for a voice seems to whisper something wicked this way comes. Yet, to my chagrin, I am taken inside.

Perhaps this home was too quickly judged! The rooms are spotless, clean and bright, and I perceive the pitter-patter of children’s feet and distant echo of innocent laughter. I am introduced to a cold marble tabletop and to my delight am released from the man’s grasp. But all that glitters is not gold. Is this a dagger which I see before me, peering behind the countertop? Rather a kitchen knife, actually, and a rather dull one it seems. Not to worry! 

Minute by minute the stress of this new place melts away, as I hear the sound of children doodling, boxes being rummaged through, and the classic Hallow’s Eve ornaments being hung upon the veranda. It seems a midsummer night’s dream that I sat petrified of this place. Other than the miniscule bumps and bruises of the car ride, I feel confident that I will spend this wonderful holiday unscathed.

Take heed! It seems that the children are quite taken aback with me, for all gather round with glistening smiles and hopeful eyes of eternal Summer. And what’s this? A gathering of tools in their hands? Be this some kind of ritual or theatrics, I wish each of them a happy Halloween, for they have finally granted me a home.

Hold up, does he have a knife?