HOLLOW IAN
Hollow Ian, the baker’s apprentice, braced himself once again to endure the upcoming japes. He blamed himself for the curse of his name. When young he had constantly moaned how hungry he was and thereby had earned on his own behalf the wretched appellation. A curse on my name, he snarled inwardly. The crone he happened to be serving nodded as if she had heard. She winked and left the shop carrying the round loaf of rye bread she had purchased.
‘Well, are you ready for Halloween, Hollow Ian?’ smirked the baker, entering from the other room.
Before Hollow Ian could shrug in sullen acceptance, the baker disappeared in a green cloud of smoke, and in his place stood a fine carved pumpkin. Ian gaped, and by the time Halloween rolled around, he had the town’s finest collection of jack o’ lanterns. And was king. And no one ever made fun of his name again.
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