A colossal pumpkin in my arms, I stumbled into the house. Kicking toy cars, small, discarded shoes out of my path. I sat at the kitchen table. Knife in hand. Dreaming of a face to carve into the orange, glowing gourd. The blank skin of the pumpkin watched me. The silence of the house. It gave me nothing. I listened. Nothing. Silence. Silence.
The rumble of a car passed outside.
On the street. The sun set.
At the table, in darkness. I never did carve the pumpkin.
seanpatrickwhiteley 
Seldom is microfiction executed so well. I love the dangling understatement and enigma of the two concluding lines (but I’ll bet s/he carved something. Or someone.) Awesome story.
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Thank you very much! I truly do not know if that gourd was ever carved, however. I think the silence of the house proved to be far too much.
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That accompanying graphic was quite something, too, and I of course love your avatar. One of my favorite books (and movies) that! Apparently one can stay at the “real” Overlook Hotel, but I haven’t researched that just yet.
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noo not my face
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