The torture was horrible, worse than when she was torn from Mother. The knife ripped her flesh mercilessly.
Her sisters were lined up in a grim display near her.
But she’d not be a showpiece in their brutal game.
The pumpkin rolled, falling off the porch of the suburban house.
It's hard to carve a pumpkin and not think of the brutality of the act of cutting clean flesh and removing soft guts. It's dark and gruesome. Won't someone think of the families of pumpkins broken apart by our fleeting seasonal attraction to their murders?
Hypocritical disclaimer: I love pumpkin pie, and would eat it even if the pie was crying and its tears soaked the sweet graham cracker crust.
