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Caitlyn Mulcahy


I write on my laptop, I write on my books, I write on my hands. Best of all, I write in my head. Constantly. I'm never not writing. What do you think dreams are? Your brain writing its own stories while you are sleeping.

The Scarecrow

February 26, 2016

PROMPT: Open Prompt

In the garden he stood. Tall and slim, head tilted a fraction to the left. His unblinking gaze was patronizing. I always sat to his left. I like the way it looked like his head was tilted, listening to me. I’m sure he was. My long honey coloured hair always got tangled in the weeds that had grown around his feet, and my dresses ended up torn and dirty. But I didn’t mind. I wrote a story about him once. His story. I knew father disliked me being around him. He thought it was unhealthy. But I had to come, I always snuck out and sat with him. It must have become extremely lonely, being out here all the time. I don’t understand why father and mother did it. We hadn’t needed a scarecrow. Mother said the crows were eating the vegetables, I thought they were fine. The crows didn’t bother me. Scarecrow was the inspiration for many of my stories. I loved making things up. But my favorite story is the one where father first put him up, overlooking the garden and house like a silent guardian seeing everything. Father said it was necessary, that even brother had agreed in the end. Oh my big brother, he had hated scarecrows. But he didn’t have a say in the matter. We were getting a scarecrow. One day, I wanted to say goodbye to scarecrow properly, I wouldn’t be coming back out for a while. So I stood up and walked around to the front. I pulled the hood off his head and wrapped my arms around his waist. The stiff arms extended slowly around me and I smiled. “Bye Scarecrow!” I had sung. Solemnly he replied,
“Goodbye little Sister.” As I placed the hood back over his head.


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  • February 26, 2016 - 5:36pm (Now Viewing)

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