A breeze pushes me gently as I watch the area around. Hay bales sat around, allowing for a place to sit for those who came out this way. Each autumn and each spring, splendorous machines make a ruckus, hurriedly planting and taking down the corn or other crop. A woman stands here and paints the scene on her canvas, a slushie sat nearby. Each year, she shows them to me and asks if the paintings look like they're going swimmingly, a running joke, one can presume. She points out where I am each year, that same scarecrow always in the corner. The children were gathered around, mesmerized by the paintings. The woman showed all of her paintings, illustrating how so little had changed. At the turn of the season, children come out here and carve their pumpkins. These poor pumpkins, getting gutted and carved, just to be decor. Particularly when scarecrows do just a fine job. Occasionally, one with malicious intent comes into my field, but my figure is usually enough to scare them off. The family has never been attacked, and I would like to keep it that way. Following the disappearance of the crop, a feast is prepared and people pray to their holy god. They pray for health, love, and longevity, wanting to stay on this small farm. They leave some of the extras out for nature to consume. As autumn turns to winter and the first snow hits the ground, the children make their way to the nearby hill, sledding down it. As the seasons continue to turn, children frolic around, either searching for eggs or even just for fun. These bright and colorful eggs were left around by their parents, who then lie and say some "Easter Bunny" had left them. I don't really get it, but they usually put a few eggs on me. As the seasons turn, they dress me in things to fit the time. The kids wholeheartedly enjoying themselves no matter what, occasionally bringing me into the fold. A new photo, the whole family there. A repetitive cycle, year after year.
As the years went by, the children continued to grow and grow, eventually disappearing one by one. The machines stopped coming, and so did the woman. The feast, no longer occurring. Unsuited for hiding, not even the ones with poor intentions appeared. I was no longer getting eggs placed on me, getting dressed up, or even in a picture. Loneliness started to kick in, nature only making it explode. I was alone, fully and truly alone. The days of fun were gone, leaving me to only be able to observe nature and its interactions in front of me. The rabbits hopping around, the fireflies lighting up the evening sky, and squirrels running up a tree, all fine, but nothing compared to the laughter of the children and the love and care the family had shown. I was abandoned, left on my own.
What had felt like years passed, even if it only snowed once. A girl, looking strangely similar to the eldest daughter of the family that was once mine, walked up, smiling.
"Sorry." She spoke softly, "You didn't deserve this. We missed you."
She then moved to pull my stick out of the ground and took me to a red truck, the same one that the family had used for years. Instead of placing me in the trunk, I was laid in the seat where the mother had sat while the father had driven. I left the only spot I had ever known. We drove away from the farm, and to a new farm. As she arrived, other children—no, young adults at this age, cheered, not for her, but for me. If a scarecrow could cry, this would be it, the moment I did. This was them, the family I had cared so much for.
"You were part of the family too, and we just left you. Abandoned you, and we're sorry." The mother spoke as the eldest daughter carried me to a new spot, with new bales of hay.
It overlooked a similar landscape to that of before, but not the same. It was a spot where I could once again watch the splendorous machines work, watch the mother paint, watch pumpkins get carved, protect the family from harm, watch the family hold a feast, watch the children sled, watch the family have fun with eggs, get dressed up to a time of year, and be in the center of their family photo. A spot where all things were right in the world.
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Creative Writing Stories
Short StoryStories I wrote in Creative Writing, most will be Countryhumans but with their human names used.
