Tuesday, October 18, 2011


He had gone out earlier in the day and bought the pumpkins and carved most of them and did a fine job: they were beauties and he was proud of them. Now, looking childlike in the kitchen, he started carving the last of them. You would never suspect he was thirty years old, he still moved so swiftly, so quietly, for a large action like hitting a wave with an uptilted and outthrust board, or here with the small action of a knife, giving sight to a Hallowe'en eye. The electric light bulb filled the summer wildness of his hair, but revealed no emotion, except this one intent purpose of carving, on his face. There was all muscle in him, and no fat, and that muscle waited behind every move of the knife.

Ray Bradbury

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Text source.


October's Daughter said...

Love. :-)

Rot said...

Yeah, this is one of Bradbury's darker stories. Not in a violent way..just a simple and disturbing one.

Shotgun_Mario said...

the end of that story is terrifing. Think I might go read it right now...