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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
| Day 4: “I am the pumpkin king.” — Jack Skellington, The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) Beneath the twisted limbs of the ancient oaks that clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers, the Pumpkin King awoke once more. His hollow eyes blazed with a cold fire, smoldering through the thick mist that draped Hollow Glen like a shroud. His voice, cracked and hollow as burning wood, echoed through the night: "I am the Pumpkin King." No mere scarecrow, he had ruled these haunted fields for centuries—an eternal sentinel between the worlds of the living and the dead. His kingdom was a realm of dusk and decay, where wilted leaves whispered secrets and shadows danced with the forgotten. Each autumn, when the harvest moon bled red, he roamed the dead cornfields, a grim monarch heralding the final breath of the season. Crooked hands, wrapped in tattered cloth and straw, stretched towards the pale stars, and his jagged crown of twisted vines pierced the chill air. But this year, the silence was broken by the intrusion of a mortal boy, drawn by rumors of the Pumpkin King’s dark majesty. The boy's eyes shone with reckless defiance, unafraid of the spectral ruler. “You guard a land where nothing truly lives,” the boy said, voice trembling yet bold. “Why linger in shadows when the light beckons?” The Pumpkin King’s grin split like cracked porcelain, hollow and eternal. “Because in darkness lies truth. And in truth, I find my dominion.” The boy’s daring presence stirred a long-buried ember within the King’s fiery heart—a flicker of something once forgotten: longing. A silence fell, thick and suffocating. The Pumpkin King knelt, his voice barely a whisper against the howl of the wind. “Come then, child. Walk with me through the twilight. See what the dawn will never reveal.” Together, they wandered among the whispering stalks, the boy’s breath mingling with the mists of forgotten souls. And as the moon bled over the horizon, the Pumpkin King realized his kingdom was no longer a lonely realm of shadows, but a place where the lost might still find their way—under the eyes of a dark, reluctant guardian. “I am the Pumpkin King... and now, you shall remember me,” he intoned, voice fading into a haunted rustle of falling leaves. The wind sighed through the skeletal corn, carrying whispers of forgotten harvests and souls long past. The Pumpkin King and the boy moved as shadows moved, silent but unyielding. Around them, the mists thickened, curling like fingers eager to clutch the living and draw them into the eternal dusk. “Why do you linger here, so far from warmth or light?” the boy asked, his voice small against the vast melancholy. The King’s hollow gaze flickered like dying embers. “Because this place remembers what others forget. Life is a cycle, fragile and fleeting. Here, the forgotten rest. And I...” He paused, his voice catching like dry leaves in a storm, “I bind the promise that they will not be lost entirely.” A silence fell heavy between them, weighed down by centuries of solitude. The Pumpkin King’s carved face softened in the dark. “You have brought a spark to the shadowed halls where none dared tread. Tell me, child, will you stay when the moon fades? Or will you flee with the dawn?” The boy looked up at the gnarled branches reaching like claws, at the haunted glint in the King’s eyes. “I will stay. For the night is long, and even kings can be lonely.” The King’s laughter was a brittle sound, like dry twigs snapping underfoot. “Then walk with me, child. Walk until the dawn finds us no longer strangers, but kin in the twilight.” Together, they wandered the fields, shadows among shadows. The Pumpkin King no longer alone, but part of a story reborn — a whispered legend carried on with the breath of the wind and the beat of a mortal heart. And in that haunted land, beneath the endless harvest moon, the King’s lantern burned brighter than ever — fierce, fragile, and eternal. |
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