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Jax

Most people love the fall season, but I hate it.

Not because I have anything against the changing of the leaves, or the chill in the air, or even Halloween itself, but because every year as soon as the weather shifts, so does everything in my life.

I’ve grown up on the Gallagher Family Pumpkin Farm, and it’s pretty much the same bullshit every year.

It’s always a rush to make sure our pumpkins are top notch, the farm is perfect, and the hayride is good to go.

Oh, and of course make sure everything is stocked in the store.

For the last five years, I’ve been basically demoted to eye candy and hayride driver, to try and help draw in the crowds.

I guess most people wouldn’t complain about being the spokesperson or model for a farm that’s been around since practically the dawn of time, and for the most part, I don’t hate my job.

I just hate how every year around this time, my family goes balls to the fucking wall about how I need to settle down and find a nice girl so I can pop out the next generation of pumpkin pickers to keep the family legacy going.

As if I couldn’t keep it going on my own. Pfft.

And of course, it doesn’t help matters that the Appleseeds across the river, who own and operate the local apple orchard—the Hatfields to our McCoys—seem to be marrying off their sons, and the daughters are popping out kids left and right.

I don’t think I’d have the heart to marry a girl out of convenience, even if would get Grandpa Robert off my fucking ass.

“Don’t be so fecking stingy with the hay there,” Grandpa says as he spreads some throughout the display.

The cool air kisses my skin as a wind blows through, kicking up some stray strands of hay across the field.

“I mean, that is our birthright, right?” I drawl sarcastically. My grandfather grunts out a dissatisfied sound.

He hates when I mouth off to him like a teenager, as he says. I don’t consider my sarcasm mouthing off by any means. If I really wanted to tell the man off, I would, but I know it won’t get me anywhere.

“It’s not our birthright, Jax. It’s a feckin’ curse,” he says.

I’ve heard the story every year, around this time.

Most families would shy away from their bad history, but not my family. No, we embrace our historic roots and profit off it.

According to my grandfather, our family is descended from the famous “Stingy Jack.” You know, the very guy who’s supposedly the father of the Jack-O-Lantern, and who is single-handedly responsible for outsmarting the devil himself so the guy ended up pissing him off and getting cursed?

Yeah, that’s my family, and the legend of Stingy Jack is our bread and butter, much like the Appleseed’s use their lineage to the famous Johnny Appleseed to sell their apples and products.

Still, it’s annoying to constantly hear the same story over and over again, just as I’m told over and over that I need to get serious and find someone to settle down with.

Why can’t I just live my life the way I want to?

Date who the fuck I want?

Why do I have to live up to my family’s expectations, when my own is what’s most important, right?

I cast Grandpa a glare as I put the finishing touches on the display. The sun is deceptive today, and though it’s golden and beautiful across the field, it’s cold as a witch’s tit.

Grandpa crosses his arms, looking at me with that scathing look he always does.

“You know there is more to our curse than the legend,” he says.

I roll my eyes. He does this every year, and every year I endure the “talk” like it’s part of my epic hero journey or some shit, when in reality, it just pisses me off.

But today, I’m too on edge. I slept like shit because I kept having weird fucking dreams about turning into a damn pumpkin and no one was able to hear me, which sounds funnier than it actually is.

Who wants to be turned into a fucking cursed fruit? Not me, that’s for sure.

I sigh, knowing it’s probably best to just let him get the speech over with.

“I know, I know. So you say,” I bite.

“I’m serious, Jax. You’re going to be thirty-one this Halloween. You’re running out of time.”

I grind my jaw. Thirty is not old. Plenty of people settle down in their thirties and forties.

My grandfather acts like there’s a timer on my life, and it’s annoying as fuck.

Just because he settled down with my grandmother when they were like fifteen doesn’t mean I’m any less of a person because I’m thirty and single.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to meet people, but being a gay man in this small town isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Not to mention the fact my father refuses to accept the fact that I am, indeed, gay as fuck. He’s always been a dick, though, my dad, which is why we don’t talk much.

Guess it runs in the family.

Thankfully, my grandmother has always been supportive, but my grandfather seems to think if I meet the right girl, I’ll magically fall in love with the pussy.

I gave up trying to tell him that’s not at all how this works, because I just don’t have the energy to keep giving a shit what he thinks.

I’d rather spend my time browsing dating apps hoping to find a nice, hot guy who can be the Cinderella to my pumpkin carriage, but because I’m cursed by my ancestors, I’ve come up short every fucking time.

Honestly, I’ve accepted I’m probably going to die a lonely old bachelor, which means I’m more than equipped to take over the family farm. Singular focus and all that jazz.

“What are you talking about, I have all the time in the Goddamn world,” I say as I cross my arms.

My grandfather shakes his head.

“No, you don’t, Jax.”

“You act like if I don’t get married by the damn full moon, I’m going to turn into a pumpkin, Grandpa. Seriously.”

His face is cold, impassive, and he tightens his lips.

“That’s exactly what will happen,” he says, as if he’s not absolutely fucking crazy.

I wave him off as I head towards the back of my truck. “I’m not dealing with this today. I can’t.”

My grandfather follows me, clearly incensed by my adult attempt at boundaries.

“You must deal with it, Jax. The time is upon us!”

I shake my head. “I’m not listening to your stupid folk tales, Grandpa. It’s a damn legend, not reality.” I heft out a crate of pumpkins, moving past him towards the sign on the other side of the road.

“It is reality, Jax. You need to find a mate.”

I hate how he always uses that word. Mate.

He should just say “pretty woman who wants to have a bunch of fucking kids.” We all know that’s what he means, anyway.

“I’ve tried to find a boyfriend, not that you would understand.”

“I told you, you can’t—”

I drop my crate, his words grating on me. I’ve had enough of this shit.

I turn on my heel, glaring at him.

“I can’t what? Huh? Wishing I’d be straight isn’t going to make me fucking straight, you know. I know you think I just need to find the right girl to fuck, but that’s not how shit works!”

Grandpa’s eyes darken, and he sneers at me.

“Your duty to this family is—”

“My duty to this family? What about my fucking duty to myself?”

He advances into my space. “You don’t get to be selfish in this family, boy. Selfish is what ended us up in this place!”

I throw my arms up in frustration. “It’s a fairytale, Grandpa! Stingy Jack isn’t fucking real! None of this…” I motion to the farm sign entrance, the pumpkins, and the decorations. “… is real! But I am! I am real, and so are my fucking dreams and aspirations!”

My blood is practically vibrating, heated by several years of anger and pent-up frustration. Maybe this isn’t the right time to have this conversation, but hell if I’m not having it. It needs to be said, he needs to understand.

“Jax, calm down,” he says gruffly.

Oh hell, no.

“Calm down! No! I won’t fucking calm down! You need to understand that I’m a damn adult and I make my own choices and …

My stomach twists, and I feel flush with heat. A sharp pain shoots up my spine, and I clutch my stomach. One look at my grandfather’s face, and he is as pale as a ghost.

The birds chirp, and the sun shines, and he looks like he’s two sheets away from death.

I don’t know if it’s that extra chili cheeseburger I ate at two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep or what, but this shit hurts.

“Jax, listen to me, you need to calm down or you’ll—”

“Or I’ll what? Regret what I say? Piss you off? I got news for you, it’s neither,” I say through gritted teeth.

My grandmother’s voice pulls my attention.

“Oh no. It’s starting…” she says as she runs to me, placing her hands on my shoulders.

What’s starting? Ow!

Pain shoots through my back and stomach, radiating outwards to my legs and arms. Something’s wrong, something’s definitely wrong.

“I told him to calm down, but he doesn’t listen,” my grandfather yells.

“He never fecking listens!”

“Robert!” Grandma pulls me close, her lips warm against my forehead. “You have to fight it, baby, fight,” she says, her voice shrill and full of pain.

I want to speak, but it’s difficult with the pain overtaking all my senses.

“Maybe it’s better this way, Annie. Maybe this is what needs to happen.”

What are they talking about?

Another pain makes me double over and yell.

“No. I refuse to believe that!”

“Let him go. Let nature take its course.”

“No!”

I throw my grandmother off me, because the pain is too much. I fall to the ground, trying to fight it but it’s no use.

This is it.

This is how I die.

Arguing with my grandparents.

How fucking sad is that?

My bones snap, and it hurts, but I don’t have the will to fight whatever is happening to me. I hate to listen to him, but I have to. I have to let go.

It’ll all be over soon.

Except, when I hear the shrill cry of my grandmother, and the sigh of my grandfather, I think maybe I’m okay.

I certainly feel better.

I reach out for them, but I can’t move my arm. I’m stuck. Frozen.

But I feel strangely heavy.

I can’t see anything. Not clearly, anyway. Everything is blurry. What the fuck?

I feel myself being lifted, and my grandfather looks straight at me, but it’s off. Something is way off.

He looks bigger than usual.

Like a giant or something.

“I told you this would happen, but you didn’t fecking believe me. And now you have no choice,” he says.

I try to speak. I yell at him to let me go, to put me down . Because I’m aware I’m in the air, somehow, though how my grandfather could pick up all two hundred pounds of me is beyond me, I know he’s holding me. Somehow.

He can’t hear me.

He doesn’t respond, just carries me.

The world is sideways as if he’s holding me to his side. As if I’m …

Oh fuck no. This can’t be happening. It’s just a legend.

My brain panics as I recall the legend my grandparents told me every fall, the same one I repeat on all our hayrides.

The legend of the Jack-O-Lantern.

And my grandfather’s insistence that I settle down.

He must hear my thoughts, for he speaks gruffly.

“I told you you’d need to find a mate before your thirty-first birthday, so you wouldn’t change. But you had to go and get all on your fecking high horse and now….”

He sighs, setting me down amidst a sea of pumpkins.

No, this can’t be happening.

I must be having another one of those weird dreams…

“You better hope your mate finds you, boy. Or you’ll be stuck like this forever because you couldn’t listen to me.”

No, he can’t be serious.

I can’t be stuck like this forever, can I? Stuck like a cursed fucking pumpkin!

As he walks away, I can see him open the gate.

And for the first time in my life, I’m scared that I’ll never see him, or my grandmother, or this farm again.