The wheat grew past our heads, ears of corn brushing our ears. Will ran on ahead. I tried to keep up but lost him in the dense jungle of our imaginations.
When I almost hurtled into him, he didn’t even seem to notice.
“That thing is creepy,” he said, staring up in awe at the scarecrow, nailed to its post like a hobo Jesus.
Its face was made of leather. Its clothes were ripped and torn.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
Will nodded and we backed away, then turned.
“Help me,” begged the scarecrow.
We screamed and fled.
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alt="Timeliness by Stephen Sottong"
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height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="A Torso for Tomorrow by Randall Andrews"
class="motion-reduce"
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width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="A Rip in Time by Andrew Kurtz"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
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height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Tomorrow by B.G. Smith"
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loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>