It was almost harvest season at Almond Town. The fields bent with the weight of fresh, ready-to-pick corn and stretched far into the horizon, with no passersby or vehicles in the distance. On that farm stood a scarecrow, unlike others, with a pig’s head and a straw-stuffed frame, wearing a striped t-shirt and torn blue jeans. It’s only purpose was to be silently vigilant in the fields and scare the crows occasionally.
The scarecrow, lovingly named “Ditto” by his master, had a secret. He would come alive at midnight, hungry for the golden ears of the corn. Night after night, Ditto would awaken from his slumber, descending from his post to roam the fields in search of the sweet kernels that promised to sate its hunger. With each bite, he relished the taste of the harvest, feeling alive in a way that only the darkness could offer.
As the seasons changed and the harvest season drew to a close, the fields needed to be ploughed, ready for the next cycle of planting. Manure was procured from the storeroom, to prepare the soil for the new life.
One late afternoon, a picnic van stopped by the fields. Its occupants, a group of curious 5-year-olds eager to enjoy a moment of leisure amidst the rural tranquility. Unfazed by the warnings of their teacher, who was preoccupied with loading the picnic table from the van, the children scurried like mice into the crop fields. Drawn to the machinery, the children followed it to the storeroom at the edge of the field.
Inside the storeroom, they discovered a treasure trove of corn, piled high, waiting to be processed into fodder for the cows waiting for their lunch in their shed behind the store. They reached out to grab handfuls of corn, their laughter filling the air as they stuffed them in their mouths. One by one, they stumbled into the gaping maw of the grinder, their cries drowned out by the mechanical whirring of the machine.
Outside, the teacher waited patiently in the van, unaware of the tragedy unfolding just a stone’s throw away. As she rang the bell twice, signalling for the children to return, she watched the storeroom grumble, its walls seeming to pulse with a life of their own.
Meanwhile, inside the cow shed, the cows gathered in a solemn circle, their pious mooing echoing through the night air. With each scoop of chowder that was dispensed into their troughs, they formed little scarecrows out of the mashed remains of the children, their hooves working tirelessly to fold them into shape.
And amidst it all stood the pig-headed Ditto, a smile playing across his stitched lips as he hoisted himself back onto his post. For in the cycle of life and death that played out upon the fields, he had found his purpose. His master’s fields will be ready for sowing soon. Ditto watched over his domain with a quiet sense of satisfaction, knowing that the harvest would always come, no matter the cost.
© 2024 Puja Goyal
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