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Cornucopiaby EstherThanksgiving time is always very exciting, but sometimes sad, for our kind. It is the time when we are at our best, and are either cherished or brought to our demise. Either way, we love the excitement and the attention that is put on us. Maybe I should explain a bit more. My family is quite normal, to us, anyways. To you, it seems quite odd. My family lives in a cornucopia. A fairly large one. A cornucopia is a sort of bread, shaped into a cone or horn shape. They are quite symbolic of Thanksgiving, and I am sure you have seen one before. They are most often filled with fruits or fall foods, and used as decoratives. Yes, my family lives in one. And, as you may have guessed, we are fall fruits. My parents are pumpkins, my brothers and sisters are corn, sweet potatoes, apples and the lot. And me? I am a pumpkin gourd. The tiny kind, that fits in your palm. I am whitish yellow. Being the only pumpkin gourd is a bit odd. Sure, there are other gourds, and other pumpkin gourds, just none like me in my cornucopia. So, my story begins only one week before Thanksgiving day. We are all quite excited, and busy preparing our home and family, so that when we are sent to a store, we will look quite appealing. It is our first and only Thanksgiving, as we go rotten soon after the holiday. It’s a pity, really, but it makes Thanksgiving all the more important. So one day, I’ve tumbled outside to play with my best friend, a bluish-purple corn. We have rolled around for a while, and are now talking about the fall fruits that will get eaten, when the farmer comes over with his wife to inspect the cornucopias. He picks us up and puts in our respective cornucopias, and then talks to his spouse. “I think they should be ready in a few days, Doris.” He says, nodding his head in an act of pride. Everybody, in all of the cornucopias, get all jumpy and excited. My mother goes fussing around, trying to cover up any bruises or blemishes we might have, even though she’s already done it at least three times today. All my siblings and I yell to our mother: “STOP!!!” and roll to our respective parts of the cornucopia. My room is at the very end, where it’s smallest, because I am youngest. My mother sighs and begins cleaning the house, for about the sixth time today. You can tell she’s nervous. Two days pass, and the farmer decides that we’re ready. He loads us all into the back of his pickup truck, and drives us to a country grocery store called “Bennigan’s Foods”, which is decorated with hay bales and pumpkins, and looks old fashioned. Then a short man with wispy gray hair and glasses, wearing a green and white striped apron, comes out and pays the farmer. He then unloads us and puts on display on top of several hay bales, along with a price tag marked: ~All cornucopias on sale: $4.95!~. Now is possibly the most tense, and boring, part of the holiday. Now we wait. We can’t move AT ALL, so the humans are tricked into thinking that we don’t move. In a day or so, a middle-aged woman comes in, looks at us, and picks our cornucopia. We are all overflowing with excitement, and it is very difficult to keep still. She pays at the register and carries us out to a small blue truck. We drive for half an hour or so. We then reach a big farm, and she pulls into the driveway. She carries us into the large house and sets us down on a long table, right in the middle. We can tell Thanksgiving is tomorrow partly because we know and partly because of everyone rushing around, preparing. It’s Thanksgiving. A huge family sits around the candle-lit table we’re perched on. We are bursting, singing for all we are worth, while some of us mourn the loss of distant relatives who are being eaten. We sit with pride as people admire us and comment on our perfection. Of course they can’t hear us sing. Soon, though, the night passes, and it’s over. Our night is through, but we don’t mind, because we did our duty. It was special, and we are proud. I’m not exactly sure why it matters so much, but I don’t care, because I loved every minute of it. The end and
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