By Peter Caunt
The western sky was bloody red.
He pulled at his collar as the wind whirled around his neck and looked towards the horizon to see how long before the sun disappeared completely. Silhouetted against the setting sun was the scarecrow they had dressed in old Ben’s clothes. Ben had been a figure of fun to many. But to the older villagers, Ben was someone to be feared, even in death.
He shielded his eyes against the driving rain then glanced towards the darkening horizon. The scarecrow was nowhere to be seen. He gasped a deep breath and broke into a run.
Love the tension in this story. And the threat… Great
Very moving!
Very much liked the ominous ambiguity. Well done!!
Great stuff! Really enjoyed this 🙂
Would like to echo albertkatz’s view.