They called him Professor Scarecrow because Mike liked the old joke – that the scarecrow deserved a Nobel prize for being out standing in his field.

Professor Scarecrow stood at the edge of their large garden, among the vegetable patch that had grown wild since they moved in. Alice and Mike had too much to fix about the house, which had been neglected by the previous owner.

The Scarecrow wore jeans and a torn Barbour jacket. The wind and rain were wrecking his clothes, and moss grew in the denim’s seams. Alice found it creepy, remembering a spooky story she’d read as a child. Having Professor Scarecrow stare at the house seemed unpleasant, so Alice turned him to face the road.

A week later, someone had turned him back to face the house. Mike told her to leave it, that it didn’t matter.

It’s not easy moving into a new place. Alice did her best to greet the villagers – the other villagers, she meant – but rarely received more than a grunt in response. The neighbours said little, other than pointing out that their place was rather big for just a couple. She figured they didn’t like outsiders. Alice didn’t care – it wasn’t as if the seller had offered a discount for locals. The old owner’s family were happy enough to take their money.

She tried her best to use the local shop, a tiny post office stuffed with shelves, but calling out supermarket deliveries was the only way to get by. Although, in time, she’d like to get the vegetable patch tidied up. Alice loved the idea of cooking her own vegetables on the range cooker.

January, the sky bright and cold, they were returning late from the city, from catching up with old friends. The front door was unlocked, and Alice laughed nervously – because she would never have accidentally done that in the city. It seemed funny and their laughter carried them through to the kitchen, then stopped dead.

Professor Scarecrow sat at the head of the kitchen table. A teapot and cup in front of him. It was a prank – a creative one, she had to admit. Alice took out her phone and told Mike she was going to call the police.

“Don’t,” he told her.

“Someone came into our house.”

“We can’t,” Mike insisted. “The reason people do this sort of thing is to see a reaction. We should just ignore it. We can’t give whoever did this the satisfaction”

Alice had had a few drinks, but she went out into the garden anyway, piled up some garden waste and logs, making a pyre for the scarecrow. She wished she’d never left the city.

Background

This is a complicated story that I’ve tried to tell in less than 500 words. I can see how you’d make it a longer piece, but I like concentrating it down to the essential elements. It also adds some interesting ambiguities - I brought the story to the Wednesday Writers, and someone suggested that it could be Mike who was responsible for the spookiness around the scarecrow.

It was only my second visit to Wednesday Writers in 2025. It felt a little imposing to be at a social event, which is one good reason for doing it. The other reason is that I heard three particularly excellent stories from the group. I’ve been a lot less social since the pandemic, and I think it’s particularly important that my writing is part of my social life rather than an alternative to it. Writing groups are great, and I’m lucky to have such a good one locally.

Recommendations

My friend Jay Clifton has a mailing list on substack. Please do sign up for Ribbon of Dream to read his thoughts on cinema. Jay thinks a lot about movies, and was a veteran of Twin Peaks Club (including the session where we watched Season 3 in a single day).

I met Jay initially because he ran Tight Lip and the Hammett Story Agency. Tight Lip was a regular short story event, which featured two local writers, a musical act, and a headliner. Jay programmed some interesting guests, including a memorable visit from Stewart Home. He worked incredibly hard to promote the night, and it always felt like an event. The most important thing about Tight Lip was that it took writers seriously. It gave them a twenty minute slot, alongside an established writer, in front of an engaged audience. I had a great time there, both as an audience member and a reader.

Jay is also a great writer himself. His performances as the Hammett Story Agency were superb - reading strange pulp narratives while his friend Sam accompanied him on guitar. I know he’s been working on things since leaving Brighton, so I’m excited to see something emerge, and hopefully the new creative work will emerge before too long.

The first essay on Ribbon of Dreams is about how Jay only watches movies at the cinema. It contains some interesting observations about solitude, and how cinema’s decline is matched by an increase in ‘home entertainment’. Living in Brighton, I’d make TV shows into a social event, cooking food for regular watch parties. I don’t have the same social networks now, but I do love seeing films at the local cinema. Even a bad movie is an event.