Country Stirrings Brooklyn Bublitz
A farmer lies asleep in his bed. Tap. Tap. Tap. He rose from his slumber to check outside nothing but typical, country stirrings. He returns to his dreams, ignoring the knocks on the window. Morning sun, same routine, fields to tend. However, something strange, new appeared out amongst the crops he eyed a figure standing in the distance. No, not a person, a scarecrow. It was old, worn, and decrepit. With a burlap sack for a face, wearing stained and well used work clothes. The farmer assumed it was just a prank “Must be those Thompson boys again,” Night fell, the farmer asleep. Tap. Tap. Tap. Awaking once again to cross his room. Looking outside reveals nothing, but a silhouette standing in the fields. The farmer awakens the crops need upkeep. It moved. Ever nearer to the house it loomed. Sick of these games, He tries to pull the damn thing out. Burlap falls away, bone was concealed. The scarecrow was human. Long dead but still human. Fingers, skin, bone, all once human. 14
