The Dastardly Pumpkin

Hope everyone’s having a great Halloween! Here’s a story.

Writin' Fish

The Evil Pumpkin

There was once a pumpkin – an evil pumpkin.  It was so evil that, when passing it by, people would say, “Hey, look at that pumpkin, Jim; I bet it’s evil.  Rotten to the core.”

(Everyone who passed by it did so with a man – or, in one case, a woman – named Jim.)

The spider approaches

One day, a spider approached the pumpkin.  Apparently, it was an unreasonably enormous spider.

“Pardon me, Mr. Pumpkin,” the spider began, all politeness, “but I wonder if you might tell me why it is that you are such a dastardly fellow.  Do you resent that holes were carved into your face?  Or perhaps that your innards were torn away to make a pie?”

The pumpkin did not respond, for it was a pumpkin, and pumpkins cannot speak in the slightest.

(“Then why can the spider talk?” I hear you asking, but I shan’t be answering…

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Pineapple

Pine...apple...?

 

I always love these sorts of hypercognates that have so specific a point of origin that they managed widespread propagation with negligible mutation centuries before the global communication boom.  Oh, English, you just had to break the mold, didn’t you?  (>^-‘)>

Although, to be fair, ‘ananas’ is also a perfectly valid English word for what we usually call the pineapple.

And Spanish speakers are more apt to call it a piña.

…and let’s not forget languages like Japanese that are perfectly happy to say パイナップル (PAINAPPURU!!!).

 

Bene scribete.

Lemons

A pile of lemons

If life hands you lemons, say “Thanks, life!”, ’cause lemons are good!

–Emmy

 

Somewhere in a field of snow
An ermine scampered to and fro.
She was a small but steady thing,
And Emmy was her name.

With fur as white as table salt
(Her tail-tip the only fault),
She zipped unseen along the ground
Whose color was the same.

Now, Emmy served a magic cat –
But, oh, let’s not get into that.
We’re merely speaking of her quest
To find her favorite fruit.

She’d buried one just months before
Beneath the forest’s earthy floor,
Yet now the turn of weather was
Impeding her pursuit.

She dug right here and dug right there
Until at last a yellow glare
Revealed itself to her within
The endless sea of white.

A squeak of joy escaped the throat
Of Emmy the triumphant stoat;
She snatched the lemon up and couldn’t
Wait to take a bite.

She licked her lips and closed her eyes
And sank her fangs into her prize,
But when the juice beset her tongue,
The ermine was distraught.

Without another sip she frowned
And tossed the fruit back to the ground,
Then turned and sulked away and grumbled,
“Stupid bergamot…”

 
 
Floobing bergamots.
 
 
Bene scribete.