Pumpkin Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

My mind buzzed, refusing to process any of it. The pumpkin tattoo in the photo was identical to the one on my wrist. I’d gotten it with my best friend, Lily Green. We both loved a niche gothic animation—the ever-grinning pumpkin figure in it had become our symbol of friendship. Lily had said, “Sophie, look at him. No matter how bad things get, he’s always smiling. We should be like that too.” And now, that tattoo had become evidence against me.

I didn't care what it would take, but I had decided to declare war on whomever it was, as I wasn't prepared to lose any more of my men to this dumb game they were playing. We also spoke for a while before hanging up. I stood at the balcony, thinking about the events of the last few days. First, it was Matilda, now it is one of the chapters. I was making a mental image of who would dare me; I had already claimed New York, and I knew no one would risk invoking my wrath. It then dawned on me that whoever it was was operating from outside New York. I remember how Uncle Alexander bled out in my hands on a cold night after being shot by the same set of men. Dad thought it was business as usual as

TORREN POV The ghost mask feels like a second skin, the internal voice modulator humming as I scale the fence of the Michigan estate. I’m not using chloroform tonight; it’s too slow, too cinematic. I have a tactical sedative patch in my bag- one touch to the neck and he’s out in three seconds.

It was early the next morning, I was in the kitchen chopping some fresh melon slices, while Anthony was fixing some furniture in the back. I was a little nervous about today, I mean I wanna help him after he told me how his mother used to treat him, but there's also a part of me that doesn't for obvious reasons. I finish chopping the melon as Anthony walks in taking a piece shoving it into his mouth, I shake my head picking the remaining slices up placing them in a lunchbox for the fridge.

Still, he was already dreaming of retirement, of leaving the place to the next generation. The Pick-Your-Own pumpkin patch came into view, and he frowned—every other crop row had at least two or three rotten pumpkins on the umbilical-like vines, shriveling on the ground. They appeared frostbitten, although overnight temperatures hadn’t dipped anywhere near the freezing mark yet. This hadn’t been here before, he realized.

I found the first pumpkin just as the last colors of evening were sinking into the garden. It lay beneath the garden bench—a little orange globe small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. The remnant of its vine curled like a cat’s tail. When I picked it up, I noticed words carved into its skin. A poem, etched with a slender blade. > Though the light is small, > it can still show the way. The carved letters were somewhat angular, but perfectly legible. The grooves were fresh, and when I ran a finger over them, I thought I could still feel the raw dampness of the pumpkin beneath its skin.

Its wide mouth was frothing with what looked like a dark red substance as it turned towards him. It would have been less terrifying if it had eyes, Jake began to think. The pumpkin toppled over the stall and was rolling slowly towards Jake who was shaking like a leaf. Any moment and its huge mouth would land on his face and tear him apart with those carved out teeth. Jake yelped and grabbed the huge book which he smashed the pumpkin with after which it exploded, covering him with a thick gooey substance all over his torso and half of his face. "Dude!" Matt was suddenly standing in front of him, his camera dangling from his neck.

Without looking away from the newspaper she had been reading, she slid the unwanted pile over to Carolina as she ate her breakfast. Carolina had been eating her turkey bacon when an ad in the classified section of the paper caught her attention. She wasn’t sure if it was real. It said that she could earn lots of money quickly just by being a companion. There had to be a catch, she thought. It seemed too good to be true.

The vines of the pumpkins were plunged deep into the black sludge. "Watch," Martha said. She picked up a rock and threw it into the sludge. The black goo rippled, trying to form a spike to defend itself. But the pumpkin vines reacted faster. They tightened. SQUELCH. The vines pulsed. We saw a bulge of black liquid being sucked up the green stem, traveling into the pumpkin. Inside the pumpkin, a faint, muffled scream echoed. Then, the pumpkin glowed. Not with sunlight. It digested the black sludge and turned it

Matt yelled. Being crafty wasn’t a planned move, but thoughts of trampling the pumpkin and robbing it of strength while manipulating the situation, roasted a variety of murderous thoughts in him, he then fished out a razor from his pants pocket. Matt didn’t give any warning and attacked the middle of the pumpkin. He started cutting it into two halves, each half collapsing into two different pieces as it blared. Matt made another strike, making it four sections. It didn’t die. It borne more pieces, scattering themselves over the Lake, encircling Matt in a penitentiary. They guffawed, having no trace of mercy in them. “You called for your own destruction, Matty.” A white spirit arose, having n