Misfits Sarah M. ’24 Here I sat, among my brothers, in a rotting field surrounded by a vibrant burgundy and gold colored countryside, bright and alive from the falling sun. I had always known this day would come in the back of my mind; the day the farmers came along and decided it was time to put the misfits in their place. It was the day before Halloween, the day before we hapless ones became nothing but nutrients for the next generation. But of course, I had been secretly wishing for this hour to draw near. I yearned to be able to rest peacefully like those before me, spending eternity covered by an impenetrable blanket of soil. It was for the best, I had convinced myself, that no one would have to stare at my ugly, misshapen form any longer. Watching my brothers get picked up by happy, smiling children with their cheeks and noses dusted with red from the brisk fall weather had been grueling enough, with it knowing I would never be able to make a child happy like that. To make a child barely bigger than myself scream giddily and point at their new friend. I knew it would never be me who brought pleasure and entertainment, who was loved and accepted. However, the ironies of life can often amaze us. Pulling me from my thoughts, a young boy, about ten or eleven by the looks of him, his hair flattened from a periwinkle wool hat, waltzed across the frosted field. He wore a wine-colored birthmark the size of a mitten across his right cheek, and he was surrounded by what appeared to be his parents. This boy nervously played with the hem of his jacket, scouring the field in search of the perfect pumpkin. The most shocking thing, of course, was that he stopped his search when his round eyes landed on me. Wandering to my helpless form, he gingerly picked me up and cradled me in his arms, examining all my deformities. The boy explained to his parents that he had found their pumpkin, and through well-hidden expressions of shock, they left the field and placed me into the back of their silver SUV, the boy taking great caution as to where I was to go. After what seemed like an eternity, the car jutted to a stop and I lost my balance, slamming into the back of the trunk. Grimacing, I felt a small, dime size dent form in my shell, and my worry returned to me. Surely the boy would not want me now that I was bruised. Surely, he had come to his senses. Maybe this was a cruel twist of fate. Perhaps the boy had realized what a lonely pumpkin I had been and wanted to draw out my misery. With these thoughts racing through my head, I dreaded the moment the trunk door creaked open. However, as the boy lifted the door to the trunk, he picked me up once more, cautiously examining my orange figure for marks. When he found the dent, he looked around nervously, worried that his parents might finally yell at him for choosing such a blemished pumpkin.
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