(All work is my own)
He hated crows. He always had, ever since they put him up here in the midlle of the field. He had been standing here all his life, if his miserable existence deserved to be called so. The crows had been picking on him since the first day. Literally. His eyes were long gone. They sat on him. Shat on him. Mocked him in his failure in what he was meant to be.
He’d never moved a toe, he didn’t even have one. He had no possibilities. No hope. No future. Slowly the annoying birds were eating his head.
A crow was sitting on his shoulder right now. Nibbling on his neck. Sticking it’s beak into a hole where his ear would have been, pulling out the straws that would have been his brains.
That’s when it happened. One of his fingers moved..
He looked at his hand. After all these years, he finally moved a body part. This was the biggest moment in his life. His hand started trembling. It shot out, caught the bird by its neck. The other crows screamed, jumped off him. They flew some rounds over his head and left. He had got them by surprise.
The crow and his hand fell to the ground. It was shaking. He saw his arm (yes, with no eyes, that’s how scarecrows work), long, glittering in the light, moving like a… snake. It crawled out of the glove. It was a snake. The scarecrow watched as the snake slowly devoured the crow.
So he couldn’t move. Stupid thing to believe, anyway, he was a scarecrow, after all. Things were better, though. Now he had a friend.
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