Uncarved Pumpkins Fear the Worst

During October, pumpkins lock in. In a couple of weeks, they have the most insane glow-up possible. They shave, get new haircuts, chisel their jawlines, larp squash scripture, and start acting nonchalant. Why? Because carving season is around the corner, and these fat orange bachelors desire the bond between a pumpkin and its carver. Laid out in a patch or lined up in a shop, each squash must display its strongest qualities and mog the competition. As one particularly angular pumpkin put it, “I’m mewing until my jaw cuts glass or my tongue falls off.”

That statement is no joke; usually, the juiciest squashes with lethal face cards are picked first, though sometimes a smaller or deformed pumpkin can also be chosen. There’s no shame in showing off your novelty. Either way, squashes will do whatever it takes to be selected, with the end goal of being brought to their buyer’s home. 

 Unbeknownst to the pumpkins, being picked is the easy part. Once indoors, the carving commences. The buyers start by slamming the pumpkin onto a kitchen table and forcefully restraining it. Then the knives come out. Blades plunge deep into the squash, drawing juices and tearing a massive hole in their head. Before the pumpkin can even react, the carver forces their hand inside it and rips its insides out. After its flesh and seeds fly everywhere, the remains of the pumpkin lie motionless on the table. Having been completely emptied, the pumpkin is grabbed by its sides, and another knife is stuck into its face. This time, the carver shimmies up and down the squash’s head, crudely replicating a new face on top of the original. When interviewed, these carved pumpkins do nothing except exclaim, “Wanna know where I got these scars?”

To diversify our narrative, The Spectator also spoke to a handful of younger squashes who were not carved. A small, slightly green squash with trace amounts of mold had lots to say: “Life for us weirder pumpkins sucks, gang. Like bro, I’ll literally never get carved, ‘cause I’m always, like, the tenth option for a carver. My melon, I literally don’t even know what carving feels like, dude; like, I’ll never be able to experience it.” 

A couple yards away, another pumpkin, this time a plump and medium-sized orange one, had different thoughts. It lamented that “I never get picked, and now I’m getting old. I’m gonna get smashed by some kid or turned into a pie any day now. Oh my gourd, it’s over for me!”

After speaking to about twenty unpicked pumpkins, The Spectator was able to identify some commonalities. We found that many of the remaining pumpkins are dreading what happens next. While some are terrified that “the crows are gonna eat us!,” many others fear that “it’s this, and then the landfill!” We even talked to a couple protesting against being made into pie.

Ultimately, these pumpkins will share a pretty mundane fate compared to the horrific demise of their carved relatives. Unfortunately, the uncarved pumpkin is an overlooked minority in history. Despite their valiant efforts to serve a greater purpose, these squashes are quickly discarded and forgotten. While this Halloween is projected to be the biggest yet, there is no hope for the sad, uncarved pumpkin.