Colours of Orange: 4

Poor Sahari needed quite a bit of convincing that pumkins were safe after encountering the biting pumpkin the other day. It was probably a spirit or some weird version of a kodama or something like that. Still, Sahari wouldn't touch a gourd until someone had checked it to make absolutely certain that it wasn't going to sprout teeth and try to munch her or anyone else.

Going through all the pumpkins was creating something of a pile, since the long-leg seemed to be insistent that every last fruit be inspected.

"Look," one of the farmers said. "We can't keep inspecting our produce to be sure they're all safe. We checked these ones, and they're safe. If you want to do something with pumpkins you can use those ones."

He indicated the pile that had built up.

Sahari let out a soft, sad whistle, but the farmer was resolute about the matter. He wasn't going to inspect any more of them. Not when it seemed less and less likely that any of them were going to start hopping about and biting everything around it. She'd just have to take what she had and work with them, instead.

But what was she going to do with a pile of pumpkins? None of them were good for painting—not that she had any more time for that, as the deadline for entries had passed. She could try whittling them, but they weren't accepting entries for carved pumpkins either. Or anything else artistic that could be done with them. If she wanted to submit something for judging it was now too late for it.

Looked like she'd just have to accept that whatever she did with them was going to be done purely for enjoyment.

A pile of pumpkins, and nothing to do with them.

Maybe if she sat and thought about it, an idea would come.

So she did.