by Tegan Maher
“But what about the love letter?” I asked. “Did you write that?”
She shook her head. “No, he wrote it. That wasn’t part of the plan. Apparently, he has a thing for your mother.” She laughed. “I edited it, though. Thought I’d help him win her over, because everyone knows falling in love is the best distraction. I added a few lines from my favorite spells and…”
Mama surprised us as she walked in. “And you thought that would work? You’re a tool. That award-winning recipe was Abuelita’s.”
“Way to go. Stealing your grandmother’s recipe,” Juliana said.
Eugenia stared at a spot on the floor. “I didn’t think of it that way. I was upset, hurt. Why didn’t you tell me you had children? Why have they never heard of me?”
Mama swallowed hard.
“How come we never heard of her?” I asked.
She wiped at a tear in her eyes.
Eugenia fought her own tears.
They exchanged glances, then burst out crying. Soon, they were locked in a bear hug, sobbing and talking through their tears.
“So, it’s over?” Juliana asked. “That’s it. We get our lives back?”
I noticed movement outside.
Jonah ushered the dazed police officers to the front yard.
“Nope. Now we have to live knowing Jonah knows what we are. If the paparazzi gets wind of that, our lives will turn upside down,” I said.
While Jonah sent the officers on their way, then scolded Eugenia and Tommy for what they’d done, Juliana and I busied ourselves in the kitchen.
When the commotion died down, Mama joined us in the kitchen. “Boil the pumpkin.”
“For what?” I asked.
“We have a Halloween baking competition to win,” she said.
“Yes, we do,” Eugenia said as she entered the kitchen. She glanced behind her. “Come here, Tommy. Let’s test your knife skills.”
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Click here to find other books by Ava Mallory: https://www.avamallory.com/
Ava Mallory was born to be a writer. As a child, she wrote on walls, windows, floors, her siblings, and any surface that sat still too long. Her love of the written word made up for her penchant for silence. That was difficult to find in the home she shared with five siblings, two (dare she say) loud parents, grandparents, and several dozen aunts, uncles, cousins, and long-time family friends who lived nearby.
When she's not writing, you can bet she's busy enjoying one or all of her many hobbies. They include: chauffeuring children, cooking for said children, finding all "lost" items for the children, recounting the days of her youth when she would walk five miles through the snow, up a hill backwards to go to school, running (after children or away from them), binge-watching true crime documentaries, streaming her favorite shows, scrolling through her social media feeds, or desperately looking for a quiet place in her house where she can take a nap.
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The Pumpkin Problem
A Dark Root Holiday Short
April Aasheim
A quick-growing pumpkin causes quite the stir in Dark Root, in this humorous, holiday short.
1
Ruth Anne stared at the small pumpkin sprouting up from the moist earth. “What…nah…hmm… where the hell did this come from?” Her thoughts fumbled from her mouth as she sought to make sense of her discovery.
It was well past dusk, but the radiant moon and river of stars offered enough light to see the mysterious new gourd that had appeared in the corner of the field. And just to be sure it wasn’t a phantom, she nudged it softly with the heel of her steel-toed boot. “You should not be here, my friend,” she said, squatting low beside it.
Ruth Anne took out the notebook and pen she always carried, making a quick sketch. It was a normal pumpkin as far as her trained eye could tell, its only peculiarity being its sudden appearance. She had patrolled past this very spot only two hours before. No way was this here.
Setting her notebook on the ground, she drew her cellphone from the pocket of her baggy jeans and engaged the flashlight function. Casting its light over the pumpkin, she blinked in surprise, nearly falling backwards onto her bottom. “What? No! How?”
The fruit appeared to have grown, ever so slightly, just in the few seconds she was looking at her phone.
Ruth Anne wiped her hands on her jeans, squinted her eyes beneath her square glasses, clicked her flashlight off and on, and then inspected it again: It was the size of a ball of cabbage, with dark, leafy vines and a short, thick stem. It was small but hardy, with dug-in roots. “Okay then…looks like we got ourselves a haunted pumpkin.”
She stood, clenching her teeth and scratching her neck. Tucking her phone beneath her arm, she grabbed at the flask hidden inside her jacket. After two quick tugs, she shook her head, pinched her cheeks, and returned the flask to its inner pocket home.
Click. She cast the flashlight beam.
“What the…” Ruth Anne jumped backwards, wind-milling her arms to keep steady. The pumpkin was now the size of her foot if her foot was pumpkin-shaped. She shook her head--it was either the alcohol or she was losing her mind.
Or maybe magick.
The thought came reluctantly, but honestly. Magick was always a possibility, and a problem, in Dark Root. It bubbled up from the earth, was steeped in the trees, and drizzled down in the frequent rains. Dark Root was one of the last bastions of magick on earth, so the idea certainly could not be ruled out.
“Deity, Damnit!” Ruth Anne cursed, not wanting to insult one god or another.
There might be other reasons, she reasoned, when her head cleared enough to reason it through. She’d had a few drinks before her shift, and sleep was scarce lately, working overtime with her sisters preparing for the upcoming Haunted Dark Root Festival.
Or, perhaps she was on the wrong side of the pumpkin patch—it was a half-mile lot, with pumpkins planted all about. Maybe she’d gotten turned around in the dark?
She shook her head, unable to accept any of those explanations. She might take a nip off her flask from time to time, or forego a few hours of sleep here and there, but she was first and foremost compulsively meticulous when it came to her duties. Ruth Anne knew, with absolute certainty, that there were no pumpkins growing in this corner of the patch two hours earlier.
But just to be absolutely, absolutely certain--she pulled up a series of aerial maps of the patch on her phone, taken by one of her drones.
Over the course of a few months, the pumpkins had all grown--some faster than others--but none in this particular corner. The most recent photo had been taken that very morning.
Ruth Anne counted the number of pumpkins in each photo. Thirty-two. Her Aunt Dora had given out thirty-two pumpkin seeds to thirty-two contestants, all eager to win this year’s contest. So where did Thirty-Three come from?
Locking her wrists behind her back and rocking on her heels, she considered her next move. Most people would just walk away, she knew, especially so late on such a cold night. It was only one small pumpkin, after all. But Ruth Anne loved a good mystery, and this one was way too tantalizing to ignore.
Besides, she had a personal stake in this new development. Ruth Anne won last year’s ‘Plumpest Pumpkin’ award, and part of the prize package was the honor of serving as this year's judge--an obligation she proudly bore. The prevailing wisdom was that only a contest winner could understand the seriousness of the duties upon the Pumpkin Picker.
As a judge, the pumpkins were only labeled as numbers on her chart. She purposely didn’t know whose entry was whose, lest she be biased. The winner was visually chosen by size, but in case of a tie, it was determined by the perk of its stem, the curl of its vine, and the splendor of its sheen in the moonlight.
Did someone p
lant a late entry? She double-checked her charts. Or had a latent seed suddenly blossomed? Unlikely though, as all thirty-two seeds were all accounted for.
Ruth Anne kneeled, taking various photos of the pumpkin, from angles high and low, keeping a careful distance. Though she’d never shared the theory with anyone, she firmly believed plants responded to a person’s energy. It was how she won last year’s contest--with the daily love and encouragement she poured into her little guy. She feared that if she touched this one, she might somehow alter its intended course.
Continuing her patrol, Ruth Anne combed the field in search of other anomalies. Based on a set of shoeprints with a distinct butterfly pattern on the bottom, her niece, June Bug, visited the field earlier in the day. The tracks ran up to entry Fourteen. The pumpkin was shiny and pleasingly orange, but mediocre in size. With only five days until the ceremony, its chances were slim. Ruth Anne smiled, proud that June Bug had refrained from using magick to aid its growth. If anyone could grow something quickly, it was June Bug or her mother Merry--when they set her magick loose, nature drank it in.
Ruth Anne walked along, nodding to herself that everything else seemed to be in place. She inhaled the woodsy scents around her. The weeks preceding Samhain was her favorite time of year--when the veil was beginning to crack but had not yet opened. It was a ghostly, mysterious time that made her senses come alive. So what if there was a freak pumpkin in the corner of the field? That was part of the fun.
“Right Ringo?” She called to the post-and-rail pen ahead of her, where the young raccoon rested in his crate. In an adjacent cage, two wounded bunnies nuzzled together in a pile. Usually, Ringo would emerge and chitter back at her, but tonight he was silent.
“Ringo?” she said a bit louder, slowing her footsteps as she approached the animals she’d been fostering back to health. She breathed out in relief when he scurried out of his den and took the handful of hazelnuts she offered through the gate. “Sorry,” she apologized. “Didn’t realize it was so late.”
Ruth Anne yawned her way back to her Jeep, ready to call it a night.
Walking past Thirty-Three, Ruth Anne covered her mouth in shock, afraid to alert the pumpkin to her presence. It had doubled in size! She snapped more pictures, then backed away to record a video. But after eight minutes of footage, it didn’t budge at all. “So, is this as big as you get? Or do you only grow when no one is looking? Damn, I wish I had brought my ghost hunting gear.”
She became aware of a strange new energy, vibrating from the pumpkin, faint but noticeable. Definitely magick.
But what kind of magick? There was dark and light and all shades in between. And some of the darkest spells were wrapped in benign pretty packages--maybe even in the guise of a pumpkin.
2
Maggie Maddock sat with her sister, Merry, sorting inventory in Miss Sasha’s Magick Shoppe. Four sugar-powered children ran circles around them, screaming, laughing, and occasionally throwing punches.
“Montana James!” Maggie called out whenever any child squealed, not looking up from the box of mood rings she was counting out.
“Why do you always blame me?” the flame-haired boy demanded, whistling the words through his missing front tooth.
“Because it’s always your fault,” Maggie replied, polishing one of the rings to a shine.
“That’s not fair!” Montana stomped his cowboy boot into the old wood floor.
“Then prove me wrong,” Maggie said.
“Don’t you think you’re a little hard on him?” Merry whispered, leaning in. She had a hard-and-fast rule about showing solidarity in front of the children.
“He cut a chunk of my hair off this morning, while I was sleeping,” Maggie countered, turning sideways so Merry could see the cube of missing hair. “Luckily, my hair’s so wiry you almost don’t notice. When I asked him why he did it, he said he was ‘building a cat’. Creepy, right?”
“Very.” Merry slid her eyes to her nephew, who was now jumping from the back of a chair into a pile of newspapers the others had collected. “You need to set boundaries while they are young, Maggie. Like I did with June Bug.” She motioned towards the lithe adolescent girl, wearing a pom-pom beanie and furry boots.
Maggie rolled her eyes at the comparison. Despite the occasional adolescent outburst, June Bug was a sweet, easy-going soul by nature. She was always eager to please, unlike the wild, reckless child Maggie had spawned. “At least I have my little Luna-bird.” Maggie blew a kiss to her daughter, Luna, pirouetting in her pink tutu before the large shop window.
“You’re a good boy, too, Marshall,” Maggie added, waving to her quiet step-son, busy picking up after his younger brother.
“You shouldn’t pit your kids against each other.” Merry wiped her hands on her cherry-printed apron. “The more you pay attention to something, the more that behavior is reinforced,” she said, digging out a parenting book from her purse.
“Well, aren’t you mother of the year? But your theory doesn’t apply here, though – I don’t pay much attention to Montana running around like his pants on fire most of the time, and yet it persists.”
“Yes…” Merry dropped whatever counterpart she had ready and tossed the book onto the counter.
Maggie glanced down at the title: Lazy Moms, Crazy Kids. “I don’t need to read this,” she said, sliding the book towards her sister. “I’ve already mastered both.”
“Owie!” Luna howled, crashing into her brother as they ran circles around the chair. She rubbed at a spot beneath her fine silver hair, her bottom lip poked out.
“Montana James!” Maggie wagged a finger. “Stop making your sister bump into you.”
“Yeah!” Luna mimicked Maggie’s wagging finger.
“I’m bored.” June Bug sighed. At 11, she was too old to play with the other kids yet too young to find adult company interesting. “I’m getting closet-phobic stuck inside,” she lamented.
“Claustrophobic,” Merry corrected. “If you’re looking for something to do, you can help Aunt Maggie tidy up the shop.”
“My shop is fine.” Maggie looked around their family business, the knick-knacks and oddities crammed onto shelves, the Oracle decks stacked too high, and a trail of muddy boot prints criss-crossing the store. “It’s lived in. Homey.”
“No offense, Aunt Maggie,” June Bug framed her top lip with one of her braids, like a mustache. “But this place is pretty gross. There’s sticky handprints everywhere and toilet paper is spread all over the back room. The quartz crystals are mixed in with the amethyst, and…” She stepped in close and clenched her teeth, “I don’t think Montana washes his hands after using the bathroom.”
“Lovely,” Maggie said, disgusted yet unsurprised. Her son rarely stopped for anything, let alone a germ he couldn’t see. Maybe I should read Merry’s parenting propaganda?
The Haunted Dark Root Festival was fast-approaching and she couldn’t have three unruly children running amok in the shop during peak sales time. “Okay, new game. She bent at the waist and clapped her hands. “Everyone go get your coloring books from the activities. Though, I really should leave you amped up for your father.”
“Daddy’s coming?” Montana asked, his green eyes glowing like a jack-o-lantern.
“Yes.” Marshall nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He was a tall, thin boy who grew faster than his jeans could keep up. “He’s taking us to the patch to look at the pumpkins.”
June Bug jumped in place, turning to her mother. “Can I go, too? I want to see if mine grew.”
Merry handed June Bug a soft blue scarf and matching mittens. “Of course, but after you drop off the pie crusts to Aunt Dora like you promised. But weren’t you just there yesterday? A watched pot never boils.”
“What does that mean?” June Bug asked, sliding into her puffy jacket.
“If you watch something, it won’t move.”
“Maybe we should try that with Montana,” June Bug laughed as her cousin buzzed around her. �
��Okay, I’m going to help Aunt Dora. I’ll text Uncle Shane and let him know that I’ll meet him at the pumpkin patch.”
“Remember the rules,” Merry reminded her.
“Don’t talk to strangers, and no using magick on my pumpkin.” June Bug opened the front door, nodding as she headed off down Main Street.
Merry watched her daughter through the window until she disappeared from view. “She’s a good sport. She could easily win if we let use her magick.”
“And I’m sure this shop would make more money if I sold magick beans. But there’s a time and place for everything, and it’s good for June Bug to discern the difference.” As the leader of The Council, Maggie felt it her responsibility to reiterate this lesson. “But I agree--June Bug’s pumpkin would totally win if she were allowed to give it a little ‘special attention.”
“He took my crayon! Right out of my hand.” Marshall raced out from the backroom, pointing at his younger brother skipping ahead of him, a bright red crayon pinched between his fingers. “Tell him to give it back, please.”
In response, Montana pushed the crayon up into his nose. Maggie quickly yanked it out and threw it in the trash. “You may want to get another crayon,” she said, patting Marshall’s head.
The boys took their coloring books to a small table in the reading section and immediately went to work. Marshall squinted his eyes as he carefully stayed inside the lines. Montana, meanwhile, scribbled an entire page neon green. Luna emerged from the backroom, bringing her plastic baggie of crayons—all purples and pinks.
“She thinks she’s a princess.” Montana rolled his eyes at her glittery crayons. “That’s all she talks about.”