The Shrieking

The Shrieking

i

— Time to rest, Shrek.

— Yes. The marsh has gone to sleep.

— Do you think they suspect?

— Us? No. They always blame the crows.

— As it should be.

— Yep. And the crows don't mind. Keeps everyone afraid of them while we do the dirty work.

— And what fun we have doing dirt. Like the time...

— Yeah, yeah, Fiona. Give it a rest. Time to squawk later.

ii

Marsh grass that the crows had gathered draped the shoulders of Old Ben, cloaking his strong recycled railroad tie of pine and creosote. They'd never rot. He'd be here for another century. He was thankful for the shock of grass though. It protected him from the stiff north breeze and bird droppings from those who thought he was a place to perch, like those two old squawks up to no good. They were always up to something. But Ben was stuck out here in the middle of nowhere... as if the marsh needed protecting.

iii

— Look at that funny scare-nothing in the middle of nowhere. What's it protecting, a treasure chest of marsh marigolds? Let's go look, Josh.

They ran towards it until...

— Where are we? I can't see that raggedly old scarecrow anymore.

— We're lost. Time to turn around. I'm getting chilled. This muck sucks.

— Wish it did!

— Do you hear those gulls, Caleb?

— Yeah. Why?

— They're laughing at us.

iv

Old Ben didn't mind not having a nose. The marsh muck stank. He had been young and handsome once. Now he wished he had eyes to see. Wished he had ears to hear. Squawkers had feasted on both. And then the Crows had grabbed his skull and placed it here like a prized trinket. Or a warning. Maybe one of those foolish young men would take his place. Hmm... which one.

© Kåre Enga (30.oktober.2021) [178.267]

~305 words
For Oktober 2021

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