The Pumpkin Lord gobbles all the carrots of Greenleaf! — illustration by Ber Schein 2025
Once upon a time, in the cozy little village of Greenleaf, there lived a most terrible, greedy Pumpkin Lord named Grumblegourd. He was the biggest, roundest pumpkin anyone had ever seen, his orange skin ridged like the hills, his scowling face carved deep into his rind. And oh, how he scowled—a permanent, grumpy frown that never, ever turned upside down. He had two tiny, grasping hands, and those hands were always busy snatching and grabbing things that did not belong to him.
Now, the villagers of Greenleaf were gentlefolk—rabbits and squirrels, hedgehogs and field mice, all living together in harmony. They loved their gardens, where neat rows of plump carrots and crisp lettuces stretched toward the sun. They cherished their tea parties, where teapots whistled merrily and biscuits crunched just right. And they adored their bright blue bicycles, which they pedaled through the cobbled streets, ringing their bells with cheerful trrring-trrrings and waving their paws to their friends.
Greenleaf was a village of sharing. If one villager’s basket was light, another would fill it with apples. If someone’s roof leaked, the whole village would climb up and patch it together. They took turns telling stories in the town square, where fireflies danced in the lantern light, and even the littlest sprouts, with their twitchy noses and wobbly voices, were always listened to.
Yes, everything in Greenleaf was just so, warm and wonderful—until Grumblegourd came along.
But Grumblegourd didn’t like sharing. Not one little bit.
“I deserve all the carrots,” he grumbled one morning, stomping his stubby feet so hard that a puff of dust rose around him. His tiny hands clenched into fists. “Carrots are the best vegetables! The biggest, the strongest, the most orange! And since I am the biggest, the strongest, and the most orange, they should be mine—all mine!”
The villagers, of course, would never agree to such nonsense. So Grumblegourd didn’t ask.
That very night, while the moon lay drowsy behind a blanket of clouds, the gardens of Greenleaf held their breath. The wind stilled. The leaves trembled.
Then—slither, slither, creep, and crawl.
From the shadows, they came. Grumblegourd’s crooked-vine minions—wriggling, grasping, slinking things that twisted and coiled through the earth, their sly, leafy voices hissing in the dark:
“Fake radishes!” one spat, curling around a fence post.
“Lying lettuce!” sneered another, twisting through the garden gate.
“Only carrots are true and strong!” they whispered, winding through the rows, wrapping their tendrils tight.
And finally, a low, rustling chorus:
“In Grumblegourd’s pockets is where all carrots belong!”
Like great looming green shadows, the vines slunk into the villagers’ neatly tended gardens. They wriggled under fences, coiled around trellises, and tightened their grip like creeping fingers. The air shivered with their rustling whispers.
And then—SNAP! TWIST! PULL!
With a wicked yoink!, they snatched up every last carrot.
By morning, the village was in an uproar.
Stew pots bubbled sadly without their tender orange medallions. Baskets sat empty where golden carrots had once been piled high. Tiny rabbits sniffled, their breakfasts ruined. The hedgehogs grumbled into their tea. The mice wrung their little paws.
“Where have our carrots gone?” the villagers cried.
And then—just as the morning sun stretched its golden fingers over the rooftops—Grumblegourd waddled into the square.
He was chewing. Loudly.
The villagers gasped. A carrot. Right there in his stubby-fingered hands. A plump, bright, stolen carrot.
“I have protected the carrots,” he declared, his voice thick with crunch-crunch-crunching. “And now they are safe. You should be thanking me.”
The villagers stared.
Their whiskers bristled.
Their tails twitched.
This was not going to stand.
“But you stole them!” cried a little rabbit named Tilly, her ears twitching with outrage.
“Wrong!” bellowed Grumblegourd, puffing up his enormous, round belly. His tiny hands jabbed at the sky. “I won the carrots! Everyone says so.”
And because the crooked vines that slithered around his feet were enchanted to repeat everything he said, soon half the village started nodding.
“He won the carrots,” they murmured, blinking uncertainly at each other.
“Well… they are very orange,” admitted an old hedgehog.
“And he is very big…” whispered a mouse.
“And very loud,” added a squirrel, rubbing her ears.
And that was how Grumblegourd took the carrots without a single bite of truth.
But Grumblegourd wasn’t done.
His squinty pumpkin eyes narrowed at the tea parties.
The villagers loved their tea parties. They sipped chamomile and mint, nibbled on lemon biscuits, and talked about important things—how to keep the village fair, how to share the harvest, how to take care of one another.
Grumblegourd hated tea parties. People there talked too much.
They asked too many questions. They noticed things.
So he spilled every single teapot and smashed all the little tea cups.
Plop! went the chamomile, splattering across the cobblestones.
Splat! went the sugar bowls, crashing into the dirt.
Stomp-stomp-stomp! went Grumblegourd’s feet, kicking chrysanthemums and lavender into the wind.
“Tea parties are for children!” he roared, his stubby hands waving wildly. “Real villagers drink MUD!”
Then he grinned, wide and wicked, his jagged pumpkin mouth splitting from cheek to cheek.
Some of the villagers frowned.
“But… we like tea,” murmured a squirrel, brushing soggy leaves off her apron.
Grumblegourd stuffed his ears with carrot tops. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” he bellowed, stomping harder.
Then he went after their bicycles.
The bicycles were important. They were how the villagers zipped from house to house. How they brought messages. How they checked on their neighbors.
But Grumblegourd didn’t want neighbors talking. Neighbors might compare notes. Neighbors might remember things. So he popped every tire. He snapped every chain. He ripped every bell right off the handlebars. Then he laughed and danced. And puffed out his chest, declaring himself a genius with no shame.
“Now no one can go anywhere but my pumpkin patch!” he cackled, his grinning face flickering in the lantern light. “I’m the greatest-most-best-hugest pumpkin of ALL TIME!”
The villagers stared at the wreckage. Their gardens were raided. Their tea parties were ruined. Their bicycles were broken. And they were tired. So very, very tired. The Pumpkin Lord’s antics were exhausting.
And as Grumblegourd grinned wide over his mountain of stolen carrots, the villagers of Greenleaf stood in silent, simmering outrage.
Their gardens were ruined. Their tea was spilled. Their bicycles lay in pieces. And they knew one thing for certain.
This. Could. Not. Go. On.
A hush fell over the square.
But the littlest rabbit, Tilly, wasn’t tired. She saw what the Pumpkin Lord was doing. She remembered. Every stolen carrot. Every shattered teapot. Every broken bicycle. And she was not afraid to say it out loud.
Tilly hopped onto a tree stump, her tiny paws firm, her ears standing tall. She took a deep breath, puffed out her chest, and shouted so loud the whole village could hear:
“He took the carrots! He broke the teapots! He wrecked the bicycles! And he’s going to keep taking and breaking until there’s nothing left!”
The villagers stopped.
They blinked.
They looked at the pumpkin-shaped shadow looming over her.
Grumblegourd’s scowl deepened.
“THAT’S A LIE!” Grumblegourd howled, puffing up like a thundercloud, his stubby fingers jabbing at the sky. “I WOULD NEVER—”
But then—CRACK! CRUNCH! His foot landed on a broken bicycle.
The wheel wobbled. The chain snapped. The villagers gasped.
Wobble-wobble-wobble—BOOM!
Grumblegourd toppled. He teetered. He tottered. He rolled. Tumbling down the hill, bouncing and bumping, leaving behind a messy trail of stolen carrots, sugar cubes, and teabags.
His enormous, round pumpkin body tumbled down the hill, bouncing and bumping, leaving behind a trail of stolen carrots, sugar cubes, and teabags.
The villagers gasped. They turned to one another. And then—Tilly giggled.
A tiny, bubbling, unstoppable giggle.
And then her friends giggled. And then the whole village laughed!
Laughed so hard their whiskers shook, so loud their tails twitched, so long that even the moon peeked out to see what all the fuss was about.
Then, without a moment to waste, the villagers rolled up their sleeves.
They dug their little paws into the earth, planting row after row of fresh green sprouts, tucking them in snug beneath the soil.
They scrubbed their teapots until they gleamed, polished their cups until they shone, and stacked sugar cubes high in celebration. The air filled with the bright, happy clinking of spoons against saucers.
They patched up their bicycles with clever paws and careful whiskers, tightening spokes and mending tires, until every wheel spun smooth and swift again. And then—DING-DING! TRRING-TRRING!—they rung their bells together, filling the village with music once more.
Every year, from that moment on, when the air turned crisp and the leaves whispered secrets to the wind, they gathered their little sprouts close and told them the tale. They spoke of the night the vines slithered in, creeping through the gardens to steal away the carrots, of how Grumblegourd stomped through their village, upending tea tables and toppling towers of sugar cubes. They told of the terrible smashing and crashing, the wails of broken bicycles and the tears in their tea-stained fur. And they told, too, of how they had stood together, paws firm, hearts brave, and put everything right again.
And so, with lanterns aglow and mugs of spiced cider in their paws, the little ones listened wide-eyed, tails curled tight, learning well the lesson of Grumblegourd—that a Pumpkin Lord might come once, or even twice, but that together, they would always keep their carrots safe.
And that is how Greenleaf saved itself.
And never—not ever, not even once—did they let a Pumpkin Lord steal their carrots, spill their tea, or break their bicycles again.
The End.