The Scarecrow



As Jake trudged through the cornfield, he recalled the argument he’d had that morning with his Pa. “But they’ve only been up a month– they don’t need changin’!”, he had yelled. “Yes they do, Jake, every one! And I want that first scarecrow replaced by sundown!”

He shifted the heavy bag slung over his shoulder and cursed at himself for not thinking of something more clever to say. He clutched the stepladder in his other arm like a lance, and fantasized about different endings to the fight. “I do all the work,” he thought to himself, “and just once I’d like some say-so as to how and when things get done.”

Striding up to the stoic figure, he put the bag down and planted the ladder. “Damn things last almost two months with proper care,” he fumed as he stepped up. He pulled off the garish hood and was met with a chorus of buzzing horse flies. Jake had just enough time to see the the boy’s glazed eyes, and the dried blood in his nostrils, before the head slumped forward.

“Huh…” he mused, “Pa was right.”