The Great Oakhaven Scarecrow Showdown
The Great Oakhaven Scarecrow Showdown
The annual Oakhaven Autumn Festival always brought out the competitive spirit in the valley, but nothing drove the neighbors quite as crazy as the Golden Pumpkin Trophy for the best farm scarecrow. For five years running, the award had gone to Walter Henderson, whose towering, stuffed-canvas masterpieces were legendary for their realistic detail.
This year, however, Arthur Pendelton was determined to break Walter’s winning streak. Arthur spent three weeks crafting his entry: a mechanical scarecrow equipped with a hidden motion sensor and a concealed cassette player that blasted a terrifying, high-pitched coyote yelp whenever anyone walked too close.
The night before the judging, both farmers sneaked out under the pale moonlight to install their creations at the edge of their adjacent properties along the county road, ensuring maximum visibility for the festival judges.
Walter was finishing adjusting his scarecrow’s straw-stuffed hat when he noticed Arthur setting up a suspiciously high-tech looking figure just twenty feet away.
“What contraption have you dragged out here this time, Arthur?” Walter called out across the dusty grass, leaning heavily on his wooden post. “Trying to win the ribbon with electricity instead of craftsmanship?”
Arthur straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow, wearing a smug grin. “It’s called innovation, Walter. My scarecrow doesn’t just sit there looking like a sack of wet laundry. It interacts with the environment. It’s got spirit!”
“It looks like a pile of garbage wrapped in a discount flannel shirt,” Walter scoffed, stepping closer to inspect Arthur’s creation. “And what are those wires running down the back? Are you trying to electrocute the crows or bake them?”
“Step any closer and find out,” Arthur warned, his grin widening as he clicked a small remote switch in his pocket. “It’s fully automated.”
Walter, too proud to back down, took a defiant step forward right into the sensor’s zone.
AAARRROOO-YEEEEK!
The hidden speaker suddenly shrieked a deafening, blood-curdling coyote wail at full volume, accompanied by a sudden, violent mechanical jerk of the scarecrow’s arms.
Walter shrieked in absolute terror, leaping backward with the agility of a man half his age. His heavy work boots caught a hidden root in the dark, and he crashed backward into his own prized scarecrow, sending both of them tumbling down in a massive, tangled avalanche of dry straw, old burlap sacks, and wooden framing.
Arthur burst out laughing, leaning against his own creation. “Good lord, Walter! I didn’t know a coyote howl could make a grown man fly backward five feet!”
Walter lay half-buried under a mountain of straw, spitting dry grass out of his mouth while his face flushed bright red in the moonlight. For a second, it looked like a full-scale brawl was about to start right there in the dark.
Then, Walter let out a short, reluctant grunt that quickly turned into a deep, booming laugh. He pushed a straw-filled arm off his chest and sat up.
“All right, all right, you got me good,” Walter wheezed, brushing debris off his flannel shirt. “I thought a real predator had jumped out of the brush.”
Arthur walked over and extended a hand down to his old rival, pulling him up out of the straw pile.
“To be fair,” Arthur admitted with a grin, dusting off his own jacket, “the sound effect might be a little too loud for the town judges anyway. Half the committee wears hearing aids; they’ll probably think the county is under attack.”
Walter dusted off his hat and placed it back on his head, looking at the two rival scarecrows leaning against each other in the moonlight.
“Say…” Walter mused slowly, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “The festival committee loves a collaborative art piece. What if we don’t compete separately this year?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“We combine them,” Walter pointed at the wreckage. “My classic craftsmanship, your motion sensor and sound box. We call it The Sentinel of Oakhaven and split the prize money fifty-fifty at the diner.”
Arthur considered it for a moment, looking at the ridiculous heap of straw and wires, then nodded. “Only if my name goes first on the plaque.”
“Deal,” Walter laughed, slapping Arthur on the shoulder as they walked back toward the farmhouses together, leaving the terrifying, high-tech scarecrow guarding the line in perfect, unified peace.
