Once upon a time in a Pumpkin Patch near the border of Kyootland, there grew a small pumpkin amidst the sea of his other much larger brethren. There wasn’t much to say, or even see about this little gourd, and such was he told everyday by the Wind who knew everything there was to know about pumpkins.
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“Nevermind him,” said the Little Pumpkin’s neighbor who leaned in close and shouldered the Wind out of the way with her marvelous girth. “He’s grumpy because the Farmer lit the trash heap for Fall and now he has to carry soot and ashes. He’s a bit of a vain fellow, you see, and he doesn’t like to smell of anything other than Mrs. Farmer’s bakery.” The little Pumpkin laughed and nodded, rearranging his leaves and vines, content in knowing he had at least one friend in the patch. And so it went throughout the evenings of the year. Little Pumpkin would spread his leaves every morning like hands open to the sunlight, trying to catch every ray he could in the hopes that he would grow bigger. At dusk when the Wind began to blow, his Friend would move closer, sometimes to talk, sometimes to rest, but always ready to bite at the Wind who seemed to be growing sharper teeth day by day.
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