There is a town in the South where no one dresses up for Halloween. On October 31, the children stay home with aged relatives or teen babysitters and watch movies, play games or anything else that passes the time during what feels like the longest night of the year. It’s not because the people of Planter’s Creek think Halloween is a devil’s holiday, and it’s not because of some sort of conservative hatred of imagination and fun. They just don’t see Halloween as a time for children. There’s too much fucking to do.
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Planter’s Creek is a farming town. Every since the town was founded by Irish immigrants back in 1763, farming has been the passion of its inhabitants. Droughts, heat waves and hurricanes obliterate the farms in neighboring towns, but Planter’s Creek keeps growing off the bounty of its harvest. Oh, there are bankers, doctors and other important people every town needs, but it is the farmers that make the town breathe and groan. Children grow up to be farmers, and the elderly pass their farms on to their children. Other farming towns die out as their young migrate to the big city but Planter’s Creek children stay in the town of their birth. They’re connected to the land by a bond they never understand till their first Halloween night as adults.
September is harvest time in Planter’s Creek. Crops are brought in and shipped off to buyers who know the perfection of their crops. Anything that grows is cut and carried off, except for what grows in two special pumpkin patches. These pumpkins are left alone except for the attention given them by old man Dan and his crone of a wife, Diana. No knife will ever carve these pumpkins, and no fire will ever burn inside them. If you ever want to make a man or woman cry in Planter’s Creek, show them a Jack-o’-Lantern. Just be ready, because that person might decide to take a swing at you.
You see, when October 31 rolls around, the people of Planter’s Creek are full of pride in their magnificent harvest. Their bank accounts are as full as their cellars crammed with produce. Prosperity has come to the town once again. Once again, Mother Nature has been generous to Planter’s Creek, and once again, it is time for the people to show her that same generosity in return.
The adults of Planter’s Creek gather together on the darkest night of the year. The men go to the pumpkin patch tended by old man Dan, and the women go the one watched over by Diana. What happens at one patch is never spoken of to the other gender, for some mysteries are not meant to be known by all.
When the men reach their pumpkin patch, they find Nature waiting for them. The pumpkins have grown to the size of women — and the shape of women. The moonlight reveals orange legs, orange hips, orange breasts and orange faces topped with long green hair. The men go into the pumpkin patch silently except for the occasional nervous giggle. They walk among the pumpkin women, looking for some particular quality, some secret desire that will be manifested in a silent natural beauty. Sometimes the pumpkin women decide for them and reach out to draw a chosen farmer down to the ground with them. No matter what happens during the year, there is always a pumpkin lover for every man who comes this night.
For the women, it’s pumpkin studs who wait. With bodies as perfect as those of their sisters in the other patch, these pumpkin men could have been carved from orange marble. Where their sisters have curves, these males have hard lines. Where the pumpkin women have coy smiles these pumpkin Adonises have confident grins like those of knowing lovers. In this patch, the women take a little bit longer to choose their mates. They squeeze, they compare, and they talk among themselves before settling down with their pumpkin paramours. Sometimes, a pumpkin male will choose a woman and pull her down into orange arms. Never has a pumpkin stud chosen unwisely. Nature knows what some cannot say.
In the brisk October night, the two pumpkin patches turn into orgies. Cocks plunge into orange cunts. Kisses taste impossibly sweet on pumpkin lips. Orange hips move to Nature’s rhythm. Hard pumpkin cocks open willing cunts. Breasts that will never sag are squeezed by eager hands, while broad orange backs resist the deepest scratches of their lovers’ nails.
Seed is spilled in both pumpkin patches. Down throats, into cunts and between tight buttocks, seed is passed between Nature and the farmers. This is the bounty Nature asks for. The people of Planter’s Creek are not the masters of their environment: They are its lovers. The pumpkin lovers are worshipped with tongues, fingers, cocks and cunts, each a proxy for Nature’s blessings.
The honeymoon lasts all night. When morning comes, the men and women leave their October brides and husbands. They return to their homes sated and exhausted from their duties. They go back to their lives with smiles that will last them the entire winter.
As for the pumpkin lovers, no one knows where they go. Old man Dan and his wife Diana always find the patches empty come November 1. Old man Dan thinks the earth reclaims its proxies. Diana thinks the pumpkin lovers go to some other town to enact some other ritual. They’ll argue about it as they do every year until the cold of winter forces them back into each other’s arms.
It doesn’t matter. Come spring, the pumpkin patches will sprout new lovers. They will be tended with love, respect and care all through the summer. At harvest time, they will come to life once more to renew the pact that is made between thighs.