Scarecrow (ebook)

SKU:
$6.99
$2.99
$2.99
On Sale
Unavailable
per item
Anthology edited by Rhonda Parrish.
Series: Rhonda Parrish's Magical Menageries
Fantasy, Science Fiction, Horror / Short Story Anthology
Release Date: August 4, 2015

eBook
Anthology: Approx. 57,000 words / 206 pages
Also available as a trade paperback

Find it Online:
Amazon (US)
Amazon (UK)
Amazon (CA)
Barnes & Noble
Books-A-Million
Goodreads
​Independent Bookstores
iTunes/Apple iBooks
Kobo (US)
Kobo (Canada)

Wholesale: Ingram or direct: World Weaver Press.

Other books in the series: Fae (1), Corvidae (2), Scarecrow (3), Sirens (4), Equus (5)

eBook purchases through World Weaver Press website include downloads of both Mobi (for Kindle) and ePub (for most other ereaders).

Description

Hay-men, mommets, tattie bogles, kakashi, tao-tao—whether formed of straw or other materials, the tradition of scarecrows is pervasive in farming cultures around the world. The scarecrow serves as decoy, proxy, and effigy—human but not human. We create them in our image and ask them to protect our crops and by extension our very survival, but we refrain from giving them the things a creation might crave—souls, brains, free-will, love. In Scarecrow, fifteen authors of speculative fiction explore what such creatures might do to gain the things they need or, more dangerously, think they want.

Within these pages, ancient enemies join together to destroy a mad mommet, a scarecrow who is a crow protects solar fields and stores long-lost family secrets, a woman falls in love with a scarecrow, and another becomes one. Encounter scarecrows made of straw, imagination, memory, and robotics while being spirited to Oz, mythological Japan, other planets, and a neighbor’s back garden. After experiencing this book, you’ll never look at a hay-man the same.

Featuring all new work by Jane Yolen, Andrew Bud Adams, Laura Blackwood, Amanda Block, Scott Burtness, Amanda C. Davis, Megan Fennell, Kim Goldberg, Katherine Marzinsky, Craig Pay, Sara Puls, Holly Schofield, Virginia Carraway Stark, Laura VanArendonk Baugh, and Kristina Wojtaszek.

Contents

Scarecrow Hangs by Jane Yolen
Kakashi & Crow by Megan Fennell
The Roofnight by Amanda C. Davis
Skin Map by Kim Goldberg
A Fist Full of Straw by Kristina Wojtaszek
Judge & Jury by Laura VanArendonk Baugh
Waking from His Master’s Dream by Katherine Marzinsky
The Straw Samurai by Andrew Bud Adams
Black Birds by Laura Blackwood
Edith and I by Virginia Carraway Stark
Scarecrow Progressions (Rubber Duck Remix) by Sara Puls
Truth About Crows by Craig Pay
Two Steps Forward by Holly Schofield
Only the Land Remembers by Amanda Block
If I Only Had an Autogenic Cognitive Decision Matrix by Scott Burtness

Excerpts

 From Kakashi and Crow by Megan Fennell:
 
Meat and feathers, the stink of fresh blood and salt water. A strong hand plunged down into an open torso and I heard the crackle of already broken ribs being shoved aside. Twisted burlap fingers stained dark red were wrenched out of the chest, trailing gore. The creature crammed the fistful of dripping meat into his gaping mouth. Wooden teeth crunched and squelched, black eyes gazing dispassionately down at the meal pinned in a crumpled heap under his filthy knees.

And I knew the guy. Son of a bitch, I knew that sorry mess of meat lying on the ground, eyes fixed and staring, blood dripping from spiked indigo hair. Blue Jay. Too late for the poor bastard now, caught halfway between forms and no longer whole enough to be patched back together, a puzzle of torn flesh and broken feathers. His ripped chest steamed slightly in the cool ocean air. 
Two things occurred to me at once like a one-two punch taking my breath away. One: Kakashi knew about this guy. Knew he was a bird-eater out of control, knew how dangerous he was, and that he was wandering around my home turf. What the hell was he playing at? I would have been safer behind bars with this rogue on the loose.

The second thing, which eclipsed the importance of the first in a heartbeat, was that the rogue had stopped eating and was looking at me. Looking at me as my mind hung invisible within the vision.
If I’d had a body at the time, I think I would have pissed myself.
 
From The Roofnight by Amanda C. Davis:
 
She was about six years old. She was walking a rag doll along a fallen log and pretending that the dolly was tumbling to its death. Inauspicious. But after two weeks with no companion save a live donkey and, later, a dead donkey, he was willing to talk to anyone.

“Hello,” said Quentin.

She gave him a steely, appraising look. Her rag doll took another deadly plunge.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Mister Meeks. I’m from the government.”

“The what?” said the girl.

He had expected this. He hoisted his teetering knapsack, and tried to look like anything but the muddy, stooped, skewed-spectacled man he was. “Why don’t you take me to your mother? I’m sure she’s heard of us.”

The girl looked doubtful, the rag doll doubly so. But she stood up and gave Quentin an impatient “come with me” gesture. He followed eagerly.

Soon the great jagged stones of Mount Whiterock parted to show a village sprouting from the dry soil. Quentin heaved his burden along behind his guide, openly marveling. Every plot had a garden and a cottage pieced together from the garden’s first bounty: rocks. In most of the gardens stood a pole that impaled two baskets, in the stylistic shape of a person.

“What a lovely village,” said Quentin.

“You smell like dogs,” said the girl.
 
From Judge & Jury by Laura VanArendonk Baugh:
 
Dawn gilded the rolling hills along State Road 800, and Jun’s eyes opened.
Ghosts were supposed to be night creatures, so far as he knew, and it wasn’t like he’d been murdered at daybreak or anything, so why he awoke at each dawn was a mystery to him. But he could guess why he awoke each morning on the steel T-post which had held first Kuebiko and then his own corpse.

He slid down from the pole with practiced ease and looked about. It was a long walk up 800 to reach the town, but there were no other options available to him. Teleportation did not seem to be a perk of the afterlife. If he wanted to see more of the trial, he would have to cover the ground himself.

A few snatches of mist still drifted over the road where it dipped, but it was a relatively clear morning. Jun kept well to the shoulder; though the morning drivers sped past him without braking or looking, he knew there was one who might see him, and he didn’t want to startle her or make her swerve if she happened by.
 
From Waking from His Master’s Dream by Katherine Marzinsky:
 
When Rosa entered Vicente's hospital room, she was greeted by a picture of obscene contrast. Her older brother lay like a filthy shadow against the sterile white of the bed sheets. A living scarecrow, whose body shed bits of straw with each breath, sat hunched in the chair beside him.

“Get out of here,” Rosa growled at the scarecrow. She shoved it aside and tossed her tangled curls over her shoulder.

Vicente’s eyes cracked open, letting the raw yolk of his gaze spill out.

“S-Strel?” Vicente murmured, reaching for the scarecrow. “Where… are we?”

“You're in the hospital,” Rosa said, interrupting. “In Cielotriste. Your appendix exploded. All the shit in your soul leaked out into the rest of your body.”

At the sight of his sister, Vicente's eyebrows rose into his overgrown bangs; the heart monitor began to beep an anxious staccato.

The scarecrow named Strel stared at the newcomer.

“Rosa,” Vicente grumbled.

“Vicente.”

“Get her out of here, Strel. I don't want to talk to her.”

Rosa pulled a cigarette lighter out of her purse.
 
From The Straw Samurai by Andrew Bud Adams:
 
The Choughs’ quiet counsel must have ended, because the girl suddenly said, “We’re building a straw man.”

Okamiko forgot her indecision. “A what?”

“A straw man.”

Okamiko studied their impressive conical hats, realizing they were expertly woven from yellow stalks. “You make things with the straw?”

The children continued working, and Okamiko almost forgot to keep up. Bouncing in front of them to get a head start, and nearly laughing with enthusiasm, she said, “Why a straw man? What will you do with a straw man? Why not a straw woman? Have you made straw people before? It must not be for battle, because a straw man is easily knocked down. Is it to scare someone? How strange that Crows are stealing rice to make a scarecrow, when a scarecrow usually keeps them from stealing rice!”

“We’re not Crows,” the fourth Chough said. Another girl, she looked and sounded older than the others. But even she didn’t supply an explanation for the straw man. Okamiko immediately discarded the question, realizing she didn’t care why. If these children required no purpose to do what they did--and Okamiko knew, children often didn’t--then she required no explanation.

Take was satisfied, too, but she heard him whispering excitedly and held him to her ear. Her eyes lit up and her tongue lolled out. “What an idea!”
 
From Scarecrow Progressions (Rubber Duck Remix) by Sara Puls:
 
I once knew a girl who feared she’d transform into a scarecrow overnight. To prevent this nightmare from spawning into a thing of reality against her will, she undertook to become one of her own accord. She began with the obligatory hat-of-straw, sewing it into her scalp as quick and sure-fingered as her grandmother fastened renegade buttons back into place on her grandfather’s dress shirts. That is how she described it anyway; we did not meet until some time after the hat took up permanent residence in the taut flesh of her head. The hat, aside from being the first step down the path of no return, was a touch green in hue and complimented her strawberry-blonde hair as well as anything could. For thread, she selected a thick, sturdy number the color of ghosts and dread. She showed it to me once, because I begged, and I puked on my shoes.
I first saw her at the carnival one night late in June. I was twenty-two, in love with mandarin oranges, and in denial about my penchant for self-inflicted pain. My fingernails were full of dirt, as was my t-shirt, and a bit of metal, or possibly a dead goldfish, had found its way into my boots. I’d worked as a carnie several years, but had just been transferred from “ride jock” to “duck pond operator.” I considered this a demotion, a low among lows, so during lulls, and also when we were busy, I freed my brain from my head and let it wander. I spent my breaks behind the bunkhouse, smoking cigarettes and eating mandarin oranges, and she would meet me there, wearing clothes that were too big and lipstick that was too red. Sometimes she’d come close enough to take an orange slice or bum a cigarette, and our fingers would brush together. Feathers in the breeze.
“What would you want to be instead?” I asked her once. “I mean, if you weren’t obsessed with becoming a scarecrow?”
 
From Truth About Crows by Craig Pay:
 
Crows were made to look like people, but there something lopsided about this one. It was just standing at the side of the road with its ragged fake hair and patchwork clothes blowing in the thin wind.

She took another sip of water, re-shouldered her pack and walked closer to the crow. It didn’t move. She could see that it was missing an arm -- its right arm -- which went partway towards explaining its unnatural look. This was one of the sorriest crows she had ever seen. Its clothes were a muted patchwork of faded browns and greys, its hair a jumble of old cables and plastic ties tangled together to form something that resembled a knot of dreadlocks.

“Hey!” she called out. “You the same crow as called at our place?”

The crow’s head jerked around to face her. It said nothing. Nodded.

She asked, “What do you want?”

The crow’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. It fell silent for long enough that she wondered whether it had finally broken down for good. Then it spoke in a dusty old voice laced with dirty static, “I need work scaring.”
She shook her head. “My father won’t allow it.”

The crow said nothing.

Laykah hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “There’s a town back there, two or three hours walk. Some folk there might have something for you.”
The crow shook its head from side to side in stuttering, jerky movements. “Not enough charge. Stay here.”

Laykah looked around then back to the crow. “And do what?”

Another long pause before the crow said, “Wait to die.”
 
From Only the Land Remembers by Amanda Block:
 
“I’ve already told you, there is nothing I can do.”

“You can choose again, pick someone else!”

Summoned by the raised voices downstairs, Grace crept from her room, avoiding the floorboards that creaked.

“That’s impossible, it goes against everything in the Charter. She was chosen, it is done.”

“She’s too young!”

“She’s old enough to volunteer, it says in the Charter –”

“Hang the Charter, she’s a child!”

Grace slid into a sitting position at the top of the stairs, half touched and half shocked by how her father was speaking to the priest.

“You know they’re your responsibility,” he went on, “these - these Crow demons, whatever you want to call them. The church should be protecting our children from them, not sending them out to do battle!”

“But we can’t, you know that. We’ve tried everything: holy water, sacrifice, even exorcism, it’s all in –” Father Francis seemed to think better of mentioning the Charter again. “It’s all recorded.”

There was a long silence. Grace drew her shawl tighter over her nightdress and waited.

“In helping to preserve the town from the legacy of the Untamed, Grace will be doing God’s work, Mr. Palmer. It is an honor for your family.”

“If she goes, I’ll have no family left.”

The priest had no response to this, so pressed on with a different line of argument.

“You have to remember, they can come back, the Scarecrows. William Bell wasn’t taken, thirty years ago. I know he moved on, but by all accounts his farm prospers. And Ellen Turner’s still here - she returned, didn’t she?”

“Not whole!” Grace’s father roared. “Not with her wits! We all saw the state she was in - heard the wicked things she said. Heaven knows what they did to her. Heaven knows what they’ll do to my Gracie…”

His voice broke. Grace put her arms around one of the banisters, resting her cheek against the cold wood.

Anthologist

Rhonda Parrish is driven by a desire to do All The Things. She has been the publisher and editor-in-chief of Niteblade Magazine for nearly eight years now (which is like forever in internet time) and is the editor of several anthologies including Fae, Corvidae, Scarecrow, and B is for Broken. In addition, Rhonda is a writer whose work has been in dozens of publications like Tesseracts 17: Speculating Canada from Coast to Coast, Imaginarium: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing (2012) and Mythic Delirium. Her website, updated weekly, is at rhondaparrish.com.

Praise

“Rhonda Parrish has assembled a stellar collection that runs the gamut of Urban Fantasy to Weird Fiction. Easily the most consistently satisfying anthology I've read in years.”
— K.L. Young, Executive Editor, Strange Aeons Magazine

“With fifteen talented writers and a subject that is both evocative and memorable, Rhonda Parrish’s new anthology, Scarecrow, is no straw man. Like any good scarecrow, this anthology is truly outstanding in its field. Don’t be scared to pick this up and give it a read.”
— Steve Vernon, author of Tatterdemon 

Praise for the Series

“A delightfully refreshing collection that offers a totally different take on your usual fairy stories! I should have known that editor Parrish (who also edits the cutting edge horror zine, Niteblade) would want to offer something quite unique. I found it difficult to stop reading as one story ended and another began – all fantastic work by gifted writers. Not for the faint of heart, by any means.”
— Marge Simon, multiple Bram Stoker® winner

"Seventeen tales... range in feel from horror to upbeat tales about homes where things go right, and are set everywhere from the modern day to mythical fantasy pasts. The best of these stories evoke things from real life – loves and values – and show characters making hard choices that reveal who they are and what they’re made of. Anyone with an abiding love of Faerie and the Folk who dwell there will find stories to enjoy in FAE."
— Tangent [C. D. Lewis]

"Nibble on this deliciously wondrous collection of stories of fae one at a time or binge on its delights on one night, you'll love the faerie feast this collection provides. Love, loss, horror, healing, humor, tragedy--it's all here, where stories of magical beings and the humans they encounter will enthrall and enlighten the reader about both the mundane and the otherworldly. I devoured it."
— Kate Wolford, editor of Beyond the Glass Slipper, editor and publisher of Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine.

“There’s no Disney-esque flutter and glitter to be found here — but there are chills and thrills aplenty.”
— Mike Allen, author of Unseaming and editor of Clockwork Phoenix
World Weaver Press | Books | About | Contact | Blog | Press

© 2012-2024 World Weaver Press