27: Pumpkins

You wanted a small one, the kind that fits easily in your little hands. I gave you a black magic marker so you could draw a face. It’s Mrs. Jelly, you said, holding up the orange orb, cowlick stem, face of circle eyes, triangle nose, jagged razor grin. It certainly is. The world outside dried leaves forming crunchy carpet, wood burning in stoves, whispering cold dusk. A landscape of monsters, your imagination.