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Day 9: The Pumpkins are Alive: What would happen if pumpkins became a sentient species.
It started simply. A seed planted in a small bit of soil, in a tiny container. It was nourished and encouraged until two leaves broke free of the soil and stretched up toward the sun. Slowly, more leaves grew and flexed, spreading outwards. A stem lifted the leaves to feed on sunlight and fertilizer. It grew big enough to be moved into a larger pot.
A bright-eyed woman who felt of green and warmth visited. She carefully inspected them all. With gentle fingers, she touched leaves and stems. She lifted each plant, peered at the little paper pots. She checked under leaves, at stems, at joints, at soil - searching for signs of disease and pest. It almost felt invasive. It definitely felt insulting. Finally, she chose two.
“One for me, one for you,” she explained to her neighbor as she handed over the young plant. “I’ve seen you - sneakily helping my garden. Now you have your own plant.”
“Thank you,” he drawled, accepting it. The man felt like the woman - green and warm. But with an undercurrent of cold hardness. “A pumpkin?”
“I know you like pumpkin,” she replied. “These will be the perfect size.”
The man’s smile was a bit confused and more than a little bemused, but he cradled the plant gently. Then he took it into his home. There he carefully studied it for a bit before smiling, looking from an old book to the plant.
The next day, the young plant received a new home. A large, handmade, wooden planter behind the man’s home, where it was protected from the wind and the sharpest hours of the sun. It was spacious - incredibly so. It had lots of space to grow and thrive. The soil provided was warm and sweet, rich with everything the little plant needed. Even things it had not known it needed.
Nearly every day the man visited, speaking softly about his day as he relaxed after work. He religiously maintained the plant - watering it, feeding it, sprinkling it with care. And the pumpkin thrived, accepting the regular feedings, the softly spoken words, the genuine care, the water, as its due. It rapidly grew to fill the planter.
With the man’s encouragement, it went further. It wrapped itself around the railings of the deck. Then it crept out onto the tiny back lawn. There, it slowly sunk a feeder into the soil. When the man noticed, he added that tendril to his regular feedings and quiet conversations in the late hours of the day. And it thrived, leaves spreading wide, vines winding and coiling into a heavy mat. It bloomed; the blooms tended with just as much care as the plant.
“Whoa!” A new visitor was at the man’s side. He poked at the plant, and it bristled internally. This one was loud and hard, pesky like the brusque jays that chased insects in the plant’s vicinity. They were useful but annoying. “Ya sure this is a mini-pumpkin, Ez?” the overly loud man asked, poking gently at the plant again. “Hey! It bit me!”
“Stop poking at my pumpkin, Mr. Wilmington,” the plant’s man said, his town amused. “Pumpkin vines and leaves have bristles. And it is doing rather well, is it now? I am quite proud of it.”
“What are you feeding it?” The loud man asked, retreating a bit as he did. “It looks… dangerous.”
“Blood and bones of my enemies,” the plant’s man replied. “What else?”
The plant stretched a bit as the loud man winced, eying it warily. Letting its leaves flutter in the breeze, it preened at Ezra’s amused pride. Maybe it would get an extra feeding tonight.