Today is a smooth white seashell, hold it close and listen to the beauty of the hours. ~Anonymous
The scarecrow was all she had left. Ironic that after all these years, the only thing he left her was a tattered thing in her old clothes. Why build a scarecrow so far from any crops crows might conceivably bother. Moreover, who build a scarecrow to guard gate, concrete and hill?
The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide.
The hills hunched green and lush, quiet in the greying sky. I hadn’t seen any indication of the enemy, but one didn’t live 500 years by being stupid. Nor impatient. One against 5,000 gave one patience. Or death, and I wasn’t particularly fond of that idea.
Something shifted near the covered mounds. The shift became a man, then a group, moving towards the smaller mound. I tensed, drawing up my bow and taking careful aim.
The gatherers formed a circle around the first man. Their voices carried to where I crouched.
“Why are we here? A hike is fine but this is a walkabout?”
I loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, twacking into the target on the side of the ancient mound.
A piece of paper flew off the arrow and landed near the circled man’s feet. Slowly, he looked around, suspicion starting to frame his face. Bent to pick up the paper. The gathers’ hands were behind their backs.
Unfolding the paper, the he read – “Happy Birthday!” – as his friends pulled out noise-makers and streamers.