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Scarecrow
One man stood alone. One small man. No, that’s not true. He wasn’t a small man. Just small-minded. Mean of spirit. The field swayed around him. Wave after wave of corn, slapped by the wind this way and that. It seethed as it moved, glancing first north, then south, as the capricious breeze threatened it from every angle. And still the man stood. Silent. Dead. He was leaning against a high metal pole, which stretched fifteen feet into the air. He had no visible means of support, above and...