Party in the Pumpkin Patch

One day, when I was a young boy I was playing in my sand box. This would have been an October. I know this because the pumpkins in the garden were fat and heavy on the vine, and there were brown leaves covering the ground and brightly colored ones in the trees. It was some time in the late afternoon because I felt the need to be wearing my green parka that I had gotten for my birthday months before.
I was playing with my plastic green soldiers and having quite the time of things. General Patton had corralled a platoon of Nazi soldiers in a cave and was just about to exterminate the so-called uber menche when something caught my eye. It was not a big thing that caught my eye, not like an intensely bright flash of light or anything, no. This was nothing so obvious as say, a stray animal in the yard.
What caught my attention was just bigger than a dragonfly itself, floating along on the autumn breeze; dodging falling leaves that came into it's path. I would have thought that it was a dragonfly had it not been shining with a soft lavender light. I watched in rapt attention, frozen to the spot as the anomaly lazily made it's way towards the garden shed.
When the thing was out of sight, I quickly and quietly snuck behind the old brick shed. Many of the bricks had begun to flake off in the twenty years since my father and uncle built it at the edge of our lot. Bits of brick popped under my feet as I inched my way around the corner between the shed and the juniper bushes which edged much of the back yard.
As I sidestepped between the shed and bushes, I began to notice other softly glowing lights in the air above and ahead of me. They were floating around in the same lazy fashion as the lavender one that had first caught my attention. As I came around the corner between the bushes, the shed, and the dead sunflowers, I saw even more lights just sitting still.
Still as death, they sat upon the fence, upon the tree branches over head, upon the toadstools which grew under the shade of the old tree that had never quite gotten chopped down. There seemed to be a very high tension in the air; a feeling of anticipation. The lights were waiting for something to happen. They all seemed to be directing their attention at the great pumpkin patch in the middle of the garden. I too, was directing my attention at that great mass of green and orange in the middle of flowers and tomatoes and peppers. I wanted to know what was going to happen.
Just before dusk, a kind of hush fell over the whole world, as if everything on earth took a quick moment to reverence. The light was just beginning to fade when it happened. A golden light shot five feet straight up in the air from the very center of the pumpkin patch. When that happened it seemed that hundreds of the soft lights flew from everywhere, directly into the patch.
I was dumbfounded. I was flabbergasted. I was in absolute awe of what I was seeing. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled through the sunflowers to the edge of the pumpkin patch. I lowered my face until I could smell the dark loamy earth that was almost touching my chin.
I pushed aside a large leaf that was blocking my view, and was met with a sight that I had dreamt of, though never truly hoped to see in all of my seven years. I was suddenly privy to a faerie party. I could not even counted the number of tiny glowing, winged. womanlike creatures that were dancing upon the floor of my garden. There was a musical band of creatures that I now know are called brownies. In stark contrast to the nakedness of the faeries, the brownies wore leaves and rodent skins to cover their tiny wiry bodies. They played hand made instruments, such as a mole skin drum, a flute constructed from blades of grass, and many other such things. One brownie who wore a chipmunk skin which dragged on the ground behind him, was playing what looked like some sort of banjo made from tree fungus.
There were brownies and faeries dancing and playing in every corner of the patch. They ducked behind leaves, playing hide and seek with one another, or danced in great circles of light. The faeries were not the only ones to shed light upon the floor of the pumpkin patch. On the underside of the great canopy of leaves there were hundreds and hundreds of lightning bugs emitting their own bio luminescence to light up the evening.
One of the faeries, a brightly glowing pink one, noticed me watching and flew up to my face. Everything stopped. I was frozen, the band was frozen, all of the partiers save one who wasn't paying attention were frozen. I was terrified. I didn't know what this tiny glowing thing was capable of. I had no idea what it could do to me. The only idea that I did have was that I might be soiling myself if I lived.
She did not turn me into a frog, not into a newt, nor into a fine mist to be blown away on the slightest breeze. She smiled at me and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle, then she kissed me on the nose. Instantly, I was reshaped to the size of one of the brownies. I have no words for how it felt that evening, to be walking through my own pumpkin patch and seeing the pumpkins tower over me like great behemoths of orange halloweenness. I looked down and saw a grub that was to me, the size of a football.
My faerie laughed at my reaction to everything, then taking me by the hand led me out into the party. The band struck up a new song and we began to dance. We danced in circles that weaved in and out of each other in ever increasingly complex patterns. I laughed and jumped and twirled in the air with my new friends. I couldn't understand anything that was said around me, but I was given the sense that I did not have to fear anything among these people. I felt absolutely carefree in a way that I have never been able to recapture.
After far too short a time, I heard my mother's voice calling me in for supper. I stopped dancing and walked to the edge of the pumpkin patch. My pink faerie followed. At the edge of the patch, she took me by the hand and kissed my forehead. As quickly as I had shrunk to brownie size, I returned to my natural state.
I looked down for a last glimpse of my faerie, but all I saw was a brief flash of pink light receding back into the leaves and pumpkins. I smiled and ran into the house to tell my family everything that had just happened to me out in the pumpkin patch over a nice hot meal.

Take Not The Stars

The early morning sun was doing it's best to burn off the mist that perpetually shrouded the woods in the first few weeks of spring. Its best was not quite enough. The shallow creek that ran each year after the first thaw made sure that there was not enough sunlight in the world to make her lower her veil.
These are the woods of northern Wisconsin, not more than a spit and a whistle inside the United States border. They like their privacy in the spring time.
If you look closely through the trees, you can see a light burning in the fog like a lantern on a dingy. If you listen carefully, you can make out the sput-sput-sputtering noise of the gas powered generator. As we step closer, you can make out that it is actually the light from the windows of a small log cabin built in the middle of a very small glen. There are no roads within more than forty acres. The only mode of transportation apparrent is an orange four-wheeler with a trailer on the hitch.
Through the window you can see a man sitting on a stool in front of a table. If you peer over his right shoulder, and past his bushy red hair, you can see that he is cleaning a rifle. He's not doing a hasty job of it either. You can tell that this is a man who takes great pride in his work. His work can be clearly seen in his surroundings.
Fur; pelts of all colors and sizes lay neatly stacked in low piles on the floor and two tables in the corner behind him. In the opposite corner is a bed, absolutely draped with furs from many different large creatures. In the corner left of that, we see a small wood burning stove and kitchen area. There is even a small sink with a pump handle faucet fed by an underground river that this man that we see so dilligently cleaning his weapon had discovered not long agter he had bought the property. He always felt that the water tasted sweeter in the spring.
As we travel back to the opposite corner, we can see htat this man, Patrick has finished with the cleaning of his rifle and has moved on to assembling it. You can see his eyes light up a little more with every clean "click" of each component as they lock into place.
When he is finished with this, he sets his rifle down by the door. Then he goes to the kitchen, and from the refridgerator pulls a one gallon ziplock bag. From this bag he retrieves a pieve of meat. from the wall, Patrick grabs a cooking cage which he proceeds to make his breakfast with.
After his course meal, Patrick dons his bright orange vest and hat, and begins the start of his day.
Thirty feet or so above the ground in a tree blind, Patrick surveys the forest two acres south of his cabin. All that he has to keep him company is his thermos of coffee, and the gallon jug that he uses to piss in.
For the first several hours, nothing disturbs the miasma, nothing of any substantial size anyway. Near noon, Patrick catches sight of an eight point buck. Unfortunately, it slips back into the fog before Patrick can take aim. At one o'clock, Patrick notices movement just east of him. The fog has let up enough that he can make out three indistinct shapes slinking though the under-growth.
His heart skips in anticipation. Could it be? Patrick brings his rifle to bare and looks through the scope. It is! It's her! It's the albino!
Patrick had been waiting almost a year for this chance. He'd caught his first glimpse of the albino wolf last spring while resetting rabbit snares. She'd seen him then, and run off with her companions before he could reach for his gun.
She doesn't see him this time. As he stares at her, Patrick thinks about the ad that he'd seen on the internet several months previous. It read, "750 k in U.S. for albino wolf pelt." The offer came from Germany. A man wanted it for his daughter's sixteenth birthday. Patrick had e-mailed him immediately, telling of the albino that roamed his property. The man sent him an emphatic reply saying that his daughter's birthday was in April and that he would offer a two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollar bonus for speedy delivery. Patrick hoped that he wasn't too late for that bonus.
Without taking his eyes off the she-wolf and her companions, Patrick reaches into his vest and produces a silencer which he deftly applies to the muzzle of his rifle. He wants all three pelts. He figures to throw in the two grays as a bonus for the German.
Patrick can't believe his luck. All three wolves have stopped to sit, and seem to be posing for his shot. There even seems to be extra light on them to help him aim. He takes his time lining up the first shot. He wants no excessive blood splatter.
It's a clean shot with perfect trajectory. The albino falls over in a crumpled heap. The two grays don't even register what happens until they look down at their fallen charge. They smell the blood. Their hackles raise. They growl at the surrounding shroud of mist. It avails them nothing. Each falls in his turn as the well placed bullet pierces his heart.
Elated, Patrick climbs down from his tree and walks over to where the three have fallen. He looks down at the albino and says, "I finally got you huh, Stardust?"
He ties the wolves together by their hind quarters and raises them by a rope to keep scavengers at bay. Then he starts the ten minute hike back to his atv.
Five hours later the pelts are cured and waiting to be delivered to their final destination. Patrick takes pictures with his digital camera, then heads out on his atv to the shack where he keeps his pick-up.
Once Patrick reaches town, he pulls into the library to use the internet. As he steps out of his pick-up, he hears a stingingly familiar voice call his name.
"Patrick LaShea!"
Patrick turns around to see a large, middle-aged indian barrelling down on him. He spreads his arms and says, "Ten Bears..."
Before he can say anything further, Ten Bears puts on of his enormous hands on Patricks chest and shoves him against his pick-up. Ten Bears then reaches into Patrick's pocket and pulls out his camera. Patrick tries to snatch the camera back, but Ten Bears holds him in place as if he were no more than a child.
Ten Bears searches through the photos on the camera until he finds the one that he is looking for. Then he says, "When I saw her fall in my dream, I knew that it was you who killed the white wolf."
Ten Bears loses some of his strength and sensing his opportunity, Patrick slips out of the giant's grip and grabbed his camera. Then he says, "So, what now? You gonna call the FWC on me?"
Ten Bears' face is drawn, and there are tears in his eyes. He steps back and says, "No, Patrick LaShea. I'm not going to call the authorities. I warned you last year, when you first spoke of her. You have killed the white wolf. Now, she will kill you."
Patrick gives him an incredulous look and says, "That's just mumbo jumbo bullshit and you know it, Ten Bears. All that wolf's gonna do is put a cool mil in my bank."
Ten Bears shakes his head and says, "And what will you spend that money on, Patrick? Liquer? Women? You will be dead before you can even count it."
Patrick simply scoffs and heads to the library doors. He even laughs a little inside when he hears Ten Bears call after him saying, "Live these next few days well, Patrick LaShea. They will be your last. She will kill you and everyone that she touches from this day forward."
The next day, Patrick receives an e-mail from the German confirming that he received the pictures and that the million dollars would be wire-transferred within forty-eight hours. Patrick goes back to his cabin that night and prepares the pelts for delivery. He even throws in a dozen rabbit pelts, and a half-dozen fox tails for good measure.
In the morning, he loads it all in the bed of his pick-up and begins the eight hour drive into Canada, where he has friends who can deliver things discreetly. It costs him over a thousand dollars to ship the pelts, but he doesn't care. The profit is well worth the loss.
Two days later, Patrick gets two different e-mails; one from the German confirming receipt of purchased goods, the other from his bank confirming the money transfer. Patrick celebrates the whole day, drinking whiskey like it's water, and dropping large sums of cash at every strip club he can find.
That night, Patrick goes back to his cabin, drunk and feeling satisfied. He drops into his fur laden bed and sleeps instantly under the influences of the day.
Just before dawn, Patrick awakes with a start. He had heard his name in his sleep, and it had woken him disturbed. He looks around his cabin. There is noone there. The door is barred shut.
Patrick gets out of bed, puts on his coat, grabs his rifle, and unlocks his door. When he steps outside into the glen, he is met by the sight of three people emerging from the thick morning fog.
In the center is a woman with alabaster skin and white hair. She is draped in fur of the whitest snow. On either side of her is a man. They are old and haggard, with gray hair and gray fur coats of their own. Each of the three wears a ruby broach the size of a fist over their hearts.
Patrick raises his rifle and is about to gove warning when the woman smiles and says his name.
"Patrick LaShea."
It is little more than a whisper, but Patrick hears it clearly over the morning din of birds and insects. Then another sound pervades his conciousness. It is the sound of soft growling, and it comes at him from every angle. Patrick looks around to see dozens of wolves slinking through the fog. Sudden fear grips his chest and holds it.
He brings his attention back to the woman, takes aim and says, "Who are you?"
She raises her right arm to point at him, and simply says, "Kill."
In that instant, he knows that she is the albino. He also knows that he doesn't have enough bullets to save himself from the multitude of wolves lunging at him from every direction. He screams as their jaws rip his flesh away until he is silenced by the rending of his throat.
Patrick wakes up howling in dismay and flailing his arms in every direction. It had been a dream. He quickly takes stock of his surroundings. His door is shut and barred. His windows are closed and locked. His rifle is in it's customary place by the door.
Then he hears it. The low gutteraul growling coming from the foot of his bed. He looks down to see the darkest, blackest wolf that he has ever seen, sitting on it's haunches and leering at him with it's amber eyes. The sound of it's growl is punctuated by the steady dripping of saliva frothing at it's lips.
Patrick does not scream as the beast leaps at his throat. He makes no effort to defend himself as it sinks it's teeth through his soft flesh. His only thought as he lays dying in it's grip is, "What a beautiful pelt you have."