“No,” said Malory, firmly. She was repairing a toaster; fixing small appliances was good for earning occasional beer money.

“Why not?” demanded Lana. She was seated across the repurposed picnic table from Malory, absent-mindedly rearranging her tools. 

“Because last year you posted a picture of you with a pumpkin and the caption ‘new girlfriend, dumped Malory’,” she said.

“That was funny!”

“A little,” said Malory. “But the thousand pages of discourse that followed was not.”

“You don’t think I was bringing transfems into disrepute, do you?”

“In this and only this specific matter?” said Malory. “No. But I’m not going through that again. Also, several mutuals messaged me with propositions.”

“Oh, really?” said Lana. 

“I mean most were ‘LMAO, rebound fuck, queen?’, but one seemed to genuinely believe that you had left me for a squash.”

Lana sat in silence for a few seconds. “Were you tempted?”

“What, by the girl who thought you were gourdosexual? Or by the squash?” said Malory. “I do like my girls to be somewhat bimbo, obviously, but that’s a bit much.”

“Hey,” said Lana, pouting. “And anyway, I would never leave you for a pumpkin! Now, if the right eggplant came along…”

“Yeah, you’d immediately assume the position for it,” said Malory. “The point is that trans girls need to pretend we’ve never heard of pumpkins. Otherwise we upset everybody by giving away that trans folk have normal human sex drives. Cis women are particularly worried that people might realise that they do too. So we must be chaste in the matter of pumpkins. That, sadly, is the cisnormative world we live in.”

“But I thought we could carve them,” said Lana. “I know you used to do that, I’ve seen the pictures. Get your wood carving stuff from your parents’ attic. You could wear your leather apron and set out all your sharp tools and look very serious. And I can annoy you until you sigh and bend me over the table and…”

“I’m not going to bend you over this fucking table, especially with sharp implements lying about,” said Malory. “Also, we don’t need to buy a pumpkin from the middle of nowhere in order for me to fuck you. You can use our clever code phase, ‘please fuck me,’ instead.”

“I’ll never remember that,” joked Lana. 

“We are supposed to be saving money. We’ll get a pumpkin from the supermarket if you really want,” said Malory. “We don’t have to pay inflated pumpkin patch prices. Where are we going to display a pumpkin, anyway? This crappy basement flat has one goddamn window.”

“And it will look great with a pumpkin in it,” said Lana. “But this pumpkin patch is free. It’s run by a commune; it’s, you know, practise.” 

“Praxis,” said Malory.

“Exactly. And we get a free pumpkin.”

“It’s probably free entry,” said Malory. “But you pay for the pumpkin. Giving away free pumpkins is stupid.”

“Please? Ruby and Johanna recommended it,” said Lana. “Pretty please? I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”

“I notice that ‘whatever I want’ tends to be you pillow-princessing it with your ass in the air.”

“Don’t pretend that isn’t what you want too,” said Lana, who had not chosen her name by accident. “Half the time you tie me up so I have to be a pillow princess even if I didn’t want to.”

Malory raised her eyebrows. 

“But, obviously,” said Lana, “I did want to. Who wouldn’t want to be a princess?”

“Me.”

“Yes, my handsome knight,” said Lana. “By day, ready to protect me; by night, ready to shove her lovely lance up my princessly posterior. So, come on knight, let’s go and get a pumpkin.”

Malory sighed. She had also not chosen her name at random; only one L, like the author of Le Morte d’Arthur. She didn’t really like Halloween or pumpkins or spooky shit, but if it excited her girlfriend, then she would nobly bear it.

🎃

“It’s thematic,” said Lana, peering through the windscreen.

Malory just growled. “It won’t be thematic if I lose the fucking road in this fog and drive us into a ditch.”

The fog had rolled in quickly, and was surprisingly thick. Malory knew she was a good driver, but these roads weren’t ideal.

“I mean, that would be quite thematic,” said Lana. “Especially if we got attacked by zombies immediately afterwards.”

“Okay, I really hope there are no zombies in this fog,” said Malory. “This car is too old to be mowing down zombies.”

The car crawled through the fog. They hadn’t seen any other traffic for ages, but Malory was ready for a boy racer around every corner.

“Would you love me if I was a zombie?” said Lana.

“Un, no?” said Malory. “I feel that you trying to eat my brains would put a damper on the whole relationship.”

“You could muzzle me,” she said. “And chain me up.” She shifted in her seat.

“Lana, are you fantasising about being a zombie sex slave?” asked Malory.

“Maybe.” Lana pouted. “A girl’s got to have ambition! You could chain me up and let the entire community of grizzled survivor lesbians use me.”

“Why are only lesbians surviving this zombie apocalypse?”

“Not just lesbians,” explained Lana, “butch lesbians.”

Malory nodded; that did make sense. 

“Probably frustrated due to the lack of surviving femmes,” said Lana, mostly to herself. “So they’d be very rough…”

Malory slowed down—virtually to a stop—for a t-junction.

“Which way?” asked Malory; Lana was navigating on her phone.

“Left,” she said.

Malory made the turn. “Are we almost there?”

“Dunno,” Lana said.

“I mean, what does the map say?” 

“Oh, that went crazy a while back,” said Lana.

“What? Then how have you been giving directions?” asked Malory.

“Vibes,” said Lana.

“Vibes? We are never going to…” Malory trailed off, as their headlights illuminated a homemade sign, “Welcome to Avia’s Farm Commune Pumpkin Patch!”

🎃

There were a couple of other cars in the field designated as a parking lot, so they knew someone else was here.

They set out; Malory took Lana’s hand.

It was still very foggy but an arch of orange lights—little plastic pumpkins—indicated the entrance. 

In the obscuring mist, a seated figure loomed out the grey.

It was a butch on a hay bale. She slowly stood. She had short, blonde hair, and a wry grin; she looked a bit tired though. Behind her Malory could just make out a farmhouse, half-hidden by the fog.

“Welcome, welcome, you found us okay in all this?” said the butch. “I’m Tabby, by the way.”

Lana clutched Malory’s hand; Malory knew she was butch mad. Of course, Lana also thought butches were a separate species with their own bizarre rituals. 

Malory sized Tabby up. Malory was slightly taller: point to Malory. Tabby wore a flannel shirt and blue jeans over boots, Malory an old black t-shirt, black jeans and no-name sneakers: one all. On her belt, Malory had a carabiner with her keys, but Tabby had a folding knife: 1-2 to Tabby. Malory nodded in acknowledgement. 

“Oh, do you like my knife? Do you want to see?” said Tabby.

Tabby was obviously a cheerful butch. Not Malory’s preferred type, but she believed butches should get past their tribal differences. And knives were cool.

“Sure!” said Malory.

The knife had a green handle in wood and opened smoothly. The blade was etched with the words ‘Pumpkin Protector’ over a stylized shield.

“Very nice,” said Malory, handing the knife back.

“Thanks! Oh, go straight in,” said Tabby. “It’s free entry.”

“How much to buy a pumpkin, then?” said Malory, suspiciously. 

“Oh, the pumpkins are not for sale,” said Tabby. “We’re free everything. But don’t take any pumpkins out of the patch, obviously.”

“Obviously?” said Malory.

“Right,” said Tabby. “Other than that, I’m just here to make sure no-one bad sneaks in; you know, children, most men.”

“You don't allow children in your pumpkin patch?” said Malory.

“Exactly, yes, or most men,” said Tabby. “Who wants little bundles of id and snot running around? And children are even worse.”

“Bit strange for a pumpkin patch though?” said Malory.

“I suppose we’re a strange patch, then,” said Tabby, easily.

Malory and Lana looked at each other. “Give us a minute,” Malory said, and pulled Lana into the fog.

“Lana, you’ve brought us to a pumpkin patch that doesn’t sell pumpkins, but just expects you to look at them like an art exhibition,” whispered Malory. “It’s all a bit weird.”

“I know,” whispered Lana, “but let’s have a look around, anyway; we don’t want to offend Tabby.”

Malory sighed. “Because she’s handsome?”

“Isn’t she?” whispered Lana. “Do you think I can drop ‘hey, do you want to take me roughly over this hay bale’ into casual conversation without it being inappropriate?”

“No,” said Malory. “And you really want to look around this pumpkin patch, in the fog?”

“It will be thematic!” said Lana. “Now, as for the other thing; isn’t there some butch code phrase you can use? You did have a knife nerd moment; I assume that initiated butch-to-butch communication.”

Malory sighed. They made their way back to Tabby.

“Point us to the pumpkin patch,” Malory said, gruffly. 

Tabby pointed with her thumb to another arch of orange lights.

“Glad you decided to join us,” said Tabby. “My friend Bita said she had a good feeling about today.”

🎃

“Join us?” whispered Malory, as they walked through the arch. “Is this some kind of cult?”

“I’m sure she just meant ‘join us by visiting the pumpkin patch,’ but, you know, in a non spooky way.”

Malory made a noncommittal butch noise.

They stopped at the edge of the patch; the fog made it difficult to be sure, but it looked expansive. Sizeable pumpkins were scattered about, vanishing into the mist. The ground was a tangle of vines and tendrils, large leaves flapping noisily in the non-existent wind. A path, illuminated by glow sticks and white pegs, cut through the tendrils, off into the fog.

“It does look a bit spooky,” whispered Lana.

“We could just go home,” said Malory.

“And have Tabby think that we’re cowards?” said Lana. “Where is your butch pride?”

“Hey, we’re not all brave and spook-proof heroines, you know!” said Malory. “I am, obviously. But it’s not a given.”

They set out along the path. It was quite narrow, so Lana walked behind. 

“How do you think they made this path?” she asked. The tendrils did not flow onto the path, but neither had they been cut, they just trailed off before hitting the path.

“Dunno,” said Malory. She was a city butch not a nature butch. 

A large pumpkin sat at the side of the path.

“It’s so round,” said Lana. “And so pretty.”

“I suppose so,” said Malory. “Don’t let any of the anti-cringe patrol catch you talking like that, though.”

“It feels a bit strange,” said Lana, running her hand across the pumpkin’s skin. 

“Probably rotten,” said Malory. “Don’t touch it. This place is weird enough that they would probably make you marry it.”

Lana hurried to keep up with Malory, and then ran into her back, as she stopped at a t-junction.

“Is it a goddamn maze?” asked Malory. “How do we know which way?”

“Left,” said Lana. 

Malory looked like she was going to argue, but then shrugged, and set off down the left path. 

“Look,” said Lana, pointing slightly off the path. There was a pair of women’s shoes abandoned in the tendrils.

“Maybe the mud was too much for them,” suggested Malory, although it wasn’t that muddy.

They continued, tackling a few more junctions in the same vibes-based way, until Malory paused again.

“Do you hear that?” asked Malory.

“Yes. What is it?” said Lana. “It’s… spooky?”

It sounded like ragged breathing and squelchy thuds.

“Deer sometimes make funny noises,” Malory said. “And they eat pumpkins.” 

They walked forward, cautiously. The sound just got louder.

“It’s off to our right,” said Malory. “I’m going to see. Stay here.” 

Malory stepped off the path and made her way into the fog. She somehow didn’t trip on any of the vines. A shape loomed ahead of her, and the sound was louder.

“Oh shit, sorry,” said Malory.

A naked woman was sitting on the floor, a large pumpkin between her thighs, slamming her girlcock into the gourd.

The woman looked up and smiled. Malory backed up quickly. 

“Fucking hell,” she muttered. “I told Lana being near pumpkins is a bad idea for us; but we’ve only come to pumpkin-fucker central!”

She got back to the path; Lana was gone. 

She wondered whether this was the path she left from; it looked the same, but it was hard to tell. Malory called her name, but there was no response. Her mobile number was just ringing out.

Malory finally decided to head out of the patch and enlist Tabby’s help. Well, assuming Lana wasn’t there already, making eyes at her.

🎃

After a few turns of the path, Malory had to admit that she was lost, and if anything seemed to be getting closer to the middle of the patch. She kept seeing piles of clothes left in the tendrils; was everyone pumpkin fucking? Was it a film set for viral videos?

After another junction seemed to take her in the wrong direction, Malory finally decided to step off the path again. Even if she picked the completely wrong direction, she would eventually hit the edge of the patch.

Again, Malory was surprised by how much she wasn’t tripping over the vines. She checked; when she placed each foot down, the vines and tendrils would crawl out of the way. Creepy, thought Malory, and she was fairly sure that wasn’t a normal plant thing. A little unnerved, she pressed on.

Another pile of clothes, this time by another large pumpkin. No pumpkin-fucker in sight, though. Malory walked around the pumpkin; as she brushed against it, she felt a slight heat. Bending, she touched the pumpkin; it was warm. And soft. Bacterial heat from decay? And yet it didn’t feel rotten: in fact it felt healthy, alive. But that wasn’t right. Malory ran her hands over the pumpkin. One of the clefts between segments seemed deeper than the others. With her fingers, she slightly parted the cleft, revealing an… orifice. No, thought Malory, who was quite experienced in these areas, an asshole.

Malory rapidly backed away from the pumpkin. 

Okay, get Lana, she thought, and get away from these freaky ass pumpkins.

She accelerated her pace; she was worried that her route was taking her to the centre of the patch. But as long as she kept going in a straight line, she’d get out the other side.

Were they some kind of genetically modified pumpkins? The next generation of fleshlights? It seemed unlikely, but that was all she could think of. “But why weren’t they in a lab?” she muttered.

“Oh, for ten-thousand years, we have preferred to have soil beneath our feet,” said a voice from up ahead. Feminine but strange sounding, maybe because it was filtered through the fog.

“Hello?” called Malory.

“Hello, Malory, you’re almost there,” the voice said. “Did you know that the pumpkin was one of the earliest crops to be domesticated?”

“No,” said Malory, suspiciously. She moved forward, but quite slowly. There was a figure up ahead.

“Before maize even,” said the voice. “But domestication is often a two-way affair. You changed wolves into lap dogs, but dogs altered humans as well.”

Malory stopped. This was, she somehow knew, the middle of the pumpkin patch. 

“Fuck,” she said, softly.

The vines were thicker here, joining and combining into a single thick stalk that grew upright in the middle. The stalk turned and faced Malory. It was vaguely feminine in shape; like a figure woven from branches. Its ‘arms’ were loose vines, undulating slightly in the evening air. At its top was a long, thin neck. Its head was blank; no eyes or mouth or other features. It was gourd-like, but not particularly like a pumpkin. It was like an inverted egg, and pale vegetable green.

“With pumpkins,” it said, swaying. “Most of the domestication went one way. Except for my species.”

“Fuck,” repeated Malory.

“Welcome,” asked the… thing. “Are you enjoying my pumpkin patch?”

“No,” said Malory. She tried to control her breathing. “What are you?”

“Humans call me Cucurbita Avia,” said the entity. “I dreamed that you might arrive today, Malory.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Lana knows it,” said the creature. “She told me. One L like King Arthur. Confusing.” 

“You have Lana? Where is she? If you’ve hurt her—” Malory approached the stalk. She kicked herself for not having a knife. What sort of butch was she?

“She is unharmed,” said the creature. “I will bring her to you.”

There was a great rustling, as vines moved over each other, bunching and contracting, pulling something out of the fog. 

“That’s a fucking pumpkin, not my girlfriend!” Malory stopped, though; the pumpkin had a tiny patch of discolouration, a little blemish. She would know that birthmark anywhere.

“Lana?” she said.

The pumpkin uncurled; like a cat stretching out from a ball. It reminded Malory of that time she got high and freaked herself out with optical illusions.

Lana pulled a thick vine out of her mouth and stroked it.

“Hi love!” she said. “Oh, and hi, Bita!”

She was naked; the last of the pumpkin colour fading from her skin.

“What the fuck?” said Malory.

“Bita turns you into pumpkins, for a while, obviously,” said Lana. “It’s nice. Sort of like sub-space, but orange. Except no-one fucked me, Bita!”

“Apologies,” said the creature, Bita. “We get more visitors when there isn’t so much blasted fog.”

“What?” said Malory. 

“It is quite simple,” said Bita. “I enter into a symbiosis with certain girls—Tabitha calls them ‘subs’ which I assume is short for ‘subjects’. They get sex, and I get some of that magical energy non-men radiate when having sex.”

“Bita also fucks you,” said Lana. She gestured to the vine that she had removed from her mouth; its end was curved and phallic. “She tastes of spiced pumpkin!”

“Indeed,” said Bita. “Many enjoy me maintaining symbiosis. Tabitha suggests that those that enjoy pumpkin spiced latte have a genetic memory of serving me.”

“Figures,” said Malory. “I hate it.”

“Of course!” Bita said. “You are a—let me see—a domme, like Tabitha. A rare thing. And not just sometimes. Lana says you always take the lead in sex with her; dominating her, taking her roughly, tying her up.”

“Er, with consent,” said Malory.

“Of course, babe,” said Lana. “I was telling Bita how great it was.”

“She was,” said Bita. “At length. So I will not persuade you to spend time as a pumpkin. But I want you to guard the pumpkins—”

“Wait,” said Malory. “Are all the pumpkins here actual people?”

“Yes, naturally,” said Bita. “Some are just visiting, sometimes with their girlfriends. Some stay longer, becoming part of the commune. Some are 24/7 pumpkins, but most return to their human forms for at least some of the time.”

“Crap,” said Malory. “Will you pass my apologies on to the girl whose butt I manhandled?”

Lana gave a theatrical sigh and pouted.

Bita tilted her head. “Claudia, yes,” Bita said, “she doesn’t mind, she says… Actually, the detail is unimportant. The point is, we need people like you, Malory.”

“I can’t believe the trans top shortage is now even affecting magical plant polycules,” said Lana. She was sitting on the ground, playing with the vines.

“Butches like Malory have always been pumpkin guardians,” said Bita. “Protecting them from deer, slugs, and most men. And, of course, helping any pumpkin that hasn’t been serviced for a while.”

“Can we?” asked Lana. “Pretty please.”

“What about our life?”

“We can just try this for a couple of days,” said Lana. 

“And you really want to be a pumpkin?” asked Malory.

“It’s really nice,” Lana said. “You wouldn’t understand, but it’s like being tied up, ass raised in the air, and then waiting in divine anticipation.”

Malory sighed. She didn’t really like pumpkins, but if it excited her girlfriend, then she would nobly bear it 

“Do I at least get a cool folding knife?” Malory asked.

🎃

Tabby slammed in again, her—frankly incredible, thought Malory—thighs tensing as she ploughed pumpkin Lana. Tabby’s hands were blurring the marker.

Malory was proud of the idea of writing the pumpkin’s name on them in marker; even if it was just because she had made a couple of pumpkins angry by muddling up their names. Amelia and Angie were quite close. Obviously, she didn’t need it for Lana, but Lana liked the idea of being written on.

Malory noticed the hitch in Tabby’s breath that meant she was approaching orgasm.

“Slow it down, Tabs,” said Malory. “I’m not ready for my turn yet.”

Malory was working on both her thighs and her refractory period, but Tabby was the lead butch in both. 

Still, Malory was beginning to change her mind on Halloween.