by Elle Jauffret

She always picked the ugliest pumpkin, the rotten one with the mouldy skin—disfigured, putrid, and asymmetrical.

She would carve through its decomposing shell with sharp nails—and dig through its flesh with bare hands.

Once its entrails removed, she would search through the stringy pulp for the blackest of seeds that she could plant.

She would sow them in the freshly ploughed ground of the paupers’ grave where Jane and John Does were buried, forgotten.

She would spit on the soil and chant in tongues. So that a year later, on October 31^st, monsters would rise from its sprouts.

Elle Jauffret

Elle Jauffret is a French American writer and Californian attorney who writes across genres.

Website: ellejauffret.com

Twitter/Instagram @ellejauffret