by Jenni O’Connor
The wind gusted in, ripping through the old Hessian potato sack holding the scarecrow together. Wisps of straw scurried away, leaping and twitching into the darkening sky. ‘Ow!’ he cried as a chunk flew from his cross-branch, leaving a sleeve flapping. ‘That was my arm!’
Rain followed wind; fat, heavy drops hard as boiled sweets. The scarecrow’s weight doubled as water soaked into thatch and sacking. He had been carelessly thrust into a furrow in the field, and icy water needled his base. ‘Now I’ll get frostbite, for sure,’ he thought, trying to wriggle free.
At last! The right-leg branch broke free, followed by the left. ‘Damn you, I’m leaving!’ he bellowed into the vengeful storm. One tottering step after another, he stumbled out of the field and down the lane, ignoring the disbelieving, frightened glances from gaping passersby. Heading – he told himself – anywhere but here. Heading south.
Jenni O’Connor is an aspiring novelist with one travel novel and one thriller under her belt; she lives in hope of these being published and meanwhile spends her spare minutes writing flash fiction to keep her brain cells moving!
The Pygmy Giant 