The Scarecrow

He walked through the field towards the distant scarecrow. The ground was endless mud, cold and sticky. Bits of dried-up corn husk, left over from harvest, had been trampled into the earth long before he had gotten there. The cawing of distant crows mocked him. He looked up towards the distant skies, cloudy and stone gray, with an occasional speck of black from the crows flying overhead. The air was freezing, and a cold wind bit at his ears. He could see the scarecrow off in the distance, and sought it desperately. Why? He could not say. It took much effort to pull each foot from the ground as the mud seemed to be trying to pull him under. He glanced up once again at the scarecrow; saw its long, black coat billowing in the wind like a ruined flag. The wide-brimmed hat it wore obscured its face. He had to reach it, he must. But no matter how much effort he made, the scarecrow seemed desperately farther and farther away from him.

- an exert from a short story, one that I will (hopefully) have finished in time for this Halloween.

Image by Pumpkinrot