Mr Abbott was always there, on the porch, drinking a beer. Holding his shotgun. Say his only friend was that scarecrow.
Older folks say it wasn’t always like this; he was different before ‘nam; or before his wife left. It always changed.
All we knew was that he’d always been there until one day, he wasn’t. We no longer saw him. We wondered, but no one dared ask. It was a salesman- an outsider – who found him. Said the door was open. He looked in. He dropped his suitcase. Called for help.
Police said Mr Abott had a fall. He’d layed there three days before he died. Shame really. We all went to his funeral. No one cried.
The only thing left of him is that scarecrow. On some nights people say they saw the scarecrow holding his old shot gun. Mr Abbott’s long been dead.But even now, no one dares go near his property.
This is my 150 word submission for the flash fiction challenge, Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Each week we submit a story of approximately 100-175 words based on a photo which we use to center our short stories on. For more information, click HERE.