Scarecrow

In a cold, damp field there stood a scarecrow silently guarding his master’s field against birds and all things. A tattered soldier who was one with nature. This field was his hallowed ground and no mortal could ever enter it and hope to leave.

It was a night like any other. The trees gently swayed in the twilight breeze, whilst ravens cawed at each other through the blackish night. A lone coyote could be heard in the distance, crying at the cratered moon as if its force had some obsessive pursuit to dim his life; a feeling shared by the scarecrow as the icy cold penetrated his thin rags. Even the wind seemed to make sounds of mockery at his expense.

After years of torment and isolation, the scarecrow’s empty mind had begun to fill with corrupt musings, thoughts of what he would do to his master if ever he laid his decaying hands on him. Hatred spread through every stitch of cloth and every inch of straw that gifted him his form.

“Kill”, whispered a voice that the universe had yet to hear.

Day and night he had stood guard against black winged birds, stuck in this wicked land of seed. What manner of being would create something unable to move, touch or feel? The scarecrow could take no more. Vigour filled his torn and serrated body, a sweet energy filling every part of him – life. As the scarecrow twisted and shook, he took his first breath, hoping beyond hope that it would not be his last.

The scarecrow began to struggle against the chafing ropes that had held him in this crucified state, he was determined to remove the ties that had bound him since the day he was created. With all of the scarecrow's might, he unchained himself from the cross which he had been affixed to.

The scarecrow fell to the ground in a heap, unable to comprehend the miracle which had befallen him. After managing to drag himself to his broken feet, he looked around his prison once more, this time as a free man, and hoped to never look upon it again.

Being free did not quell the scarecrow’s searing rage; one could not fathom the hatred he felt for his vicious master. There was a desire in the pit of his straw stomach. He wanted revenge.

There was a shining beacon of light in the distance. The warm glow pierced the night sky and made the scarecrow’s mind pound with glee. Patiently, he lumbered towards the light, holding his arms out to steady himself. He tripped and fell to his knees as a child would, over and over again. But the scarecrow continued his trek, gradually gaining speed as he learned to walk. The cracked ground beneath him felt rugged and harsh on the old brown rags he called his feet.

Eventually, the scarecrow reached his destination. His master’s house. It was a modest abode. From what he could see there were few rooms, paint peeling off the timber frames. There were tiles missing from the roof, and the chimney looked as though it could fall at any moment. A light was shining through the grimy-looking windows. The scarecrow staggered over and peered through.

An abhorrent look crossed his worn face as he stared at the man – his creator. The man was sitting in front of a roaring fire in his warm, cosy room. A glass of something was settled on a small table next to his armchair. The farmer had been living like a king, while he, a scarecrow, lived as a peasant.

Psychotic thoughts flooded the scarecrow’s mind. He stumbled to the door and knocked it three times.

“Who’s there?” the farmer yelled out after a brief pause.

The scarecrow stared blankly at the door.

“Who’s there I said?”

The farmer unlocked the door angrily, removing the bolt and chain. He swung the door open and glared at the uninvited guest. There the scarecrow stood, between the aged doorway, towering over the farmer with a murderous glint in his black, sunken eyes.

The farmer started to shake and the shotgun in his hands began to rattle like an old exhaust pipe. “M-m-monster”, he stuttered, paralysed by fear. A millipede was making its way out of the scarecrow's mouth, crawling over his nerveless face.

The scarecrow stepped towards him and grabbed him by the neck. The farmer dropped the shotgun in an instant, losing his grip. The weapon hit the ground and discharged, with an almighty bang it shot both its shells, leaving thick white smoke fleeing the end of its barrels. A great gaping hole was left in the scarecrow’s hay chest, but he couldn’t feel a thing.

The scarecrow exercised his voice for the first time. He asked the question which had first filled his vacant thoughts.

"Why did you create me?”

The terrified farmer shook violently as he hung from the scarecrow’s threadbare hand, life being choked out of him, and with a brutal snap, the scarecrow broke his master’s neck, leaving him a limp dead corpse.