Night of the Living Scarecrow

By Vanessa E. Howard

The biggest problem with being a scarecrow brought to life was the publicity. Memories of my prior existence in the zucchini patch remained fuzzy, but I was fairly certain there were no interviews, cameras, mobile phones, or TV crews before the kid worked his magic.

“Come on, Edgar. It’s one night.”

The kid had named me Edgar Allen Crow, which he seemed to think was immensely clever. I didn’t get it.

I stood in the corner of his messy bedroom with one wooden foot on a jumble of school papers and the other on a plastic video game case. “I don’t want to go to your fall jest, Mason. Everyone just stares at me.”

“It’s Fall Fest. And they stare because you’re cool.”

I’d discovered “cool” was the highest compliment I could receive, but that still wasn’t enough to convince me to attend this party. “Wasn’t going to your show-and-tell enough?”

Mason shrugged and shifted away. “I just thought if you were there, maybe Mark and them would leave me…” His voice trailed off into mumbles.

I bent my broomstick body to get closer to his level. “Is someone bothering you? Because I could hit them. I have a wooden fist.”

“No, it’s… whatever.” His brow furrowed.

That phrase made no sense, but even my magically made straw brain could figure out that he needed me. “I’ll go with you, but we’re going to have to set a maximum photo limit.”

He brightened and nodded. “Yeah okay. Let me get my costume on.”

A few minutes later we sauntered down the street, a tall scarecrow in a flannel shirt and suit jacket, and a short boy in a fedora, tie, and shiny dress shoes. Mason insisted his gangster costume was top notch, and who was I to argue?

We arrived at Fall Fest to the typical gasps and screams from the uninitiated, followed by the slow acceptance of a boy and his living scarecrow.

The school had set up the festival in a weedy field between the band hall and the south parking lot and gave it as many fall trappings as their budget allowed. Bales of hay piled on one another, pumpkins decorated every possible corner, and chrysanthemums abounded. The setting sun gave everything an orange glow.

Near the entrance was a photo booth made of scrap lumber and generously festooned with burlap. Mobile phones came out and the requests began. I gave Mason a warning look. “We agreed to twenty photos. No more. Not even if it’s your mom.”

He nodded and ushered the first student over to stand next to me.

While teen girls and smiling mothers snapped pictures, I murmured, “So who is this Mark person?”

Mason pulled a stem of hay from a bale and broke it. “He’s just a bully. Don’t worry about it.”

“If he bothers you, you bet I’m going to worry about it.”

“Him and his friends call me names. They think I’m weird because I can do magic.”

Two more pictures to go. When the last photo was taken, I led Mason away from the photo booth. “You’re extraordinary because you can do magic. They’re jealous.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t make it easier.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

A man with a black camera propped on his shoulder jogged into my vision, followed by a small woman holding a microphone. She opened her mouth to speak, but I roared “No!”

They backed away, but I’m pretty sure they kept filming.

Mason pulled at my arms. “Come on, let’s go shoot the apple cannon.”

He talked while we walked. “My magic never does what I expect. It always goes wrong. I wasn’t trying to make you actually come alive. I was just trying to make you walk. Just wanted to see if I could make a scarecrow move.”

Would being a puppet be an improvement over being an accidental celebrity? No. No, I wasn’t sorry he’d brought me to life.

“Maybe it doesn’t go wrong. Maybe it actually goes right,” I said.

The camera crew was still recording us, but from a distance.

At the apple cannon, Mason dug into his pocket for money. “What do you mean?”

“Your magic does more than you expect. It pushes you, goes further.”

“Stop trying to sound so wise.” But he was smiling.

He shot the apple cannon five times, but only hit the target once.

Someone snickered, and we found a trio of boys behind us. A tall fellow in a skeleton costume, one boy in football pads, and one dressed as a pirate.

“You’re so lame, Mason,” the skeleton said. “You can’t hit anything.”

This must be the infamous Mark.

The pirate snorted. “Lame aim!” They all laughed.

I could have pounded them with my fist, but instead I leaned down to Mason. “Your magic does more,” I whispered. “Give it a try.”

He looked at me, at the bullies, and then at me again. He flicked his fingers toward me.

I started growing. And growing. Bigger. Taller. Enormous. Monstrous. Soon I was towering over the neighboring school building. I bent toward the boys below.

They screamed and scattered. Mason chuckled.

All around us, the crowd streamed away, their shrieks and yells echoing up to me. In the midst of the chaos, Mason pushed his fedora back and gazed up at me, wearing a more confident smile than I’d ever seen. I gave him a nod.

One voice stood out in all the yelling. “Excuse me, sir. Could we have a moment of your time?” The woman with the microphone and the man with the camera stood in front of their television truck, parked nearby at the edge of the field.

I sighed and Mason patted my leg. I shrugged. The kid was worth a little publicity. And since I was already big, I might as well take advantage of it.

I opened one gargantuan wooden hand and reached for the television truck.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vanessa E. Howard writes primarily fantasy for young adult and middle grade. She has been a newspaper reporter, magazine writer, and college composition teacher. A member of the Flash Fiction Magic writing community and ACFW, she is also a homeschool mom and co-op teacher. She has been published by Spark and Havok and has upcoming publications with Twenty Hills and Nightshade. Ms. Howard lives with her family in Central Texas.

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