Spring 2007 Volume One Issue Two
My Brother Is A Scarecrow - Martin Steele
I helped my father make him. The thin splinter arms, the yellow straw in his head, the cast off golden slippers on his stumpy feet and a weskit that fitted emperors in years gone by when Lotto was a religion and anyone could sit down and play. But the locals would not play with my brother. All kinds of excuses were made, like, I'm allergic to straw, I get splinters easily. I don't play with men of straw. At dinnertime we set three places. The food on the table is well devoured. My father talks with his mouth full and I look silently down at my plate realising my brother will soon be needing a new makeover. The meal over the washing up is not necessary. The plates are put outside in the yard for the birds but my brother makes sure they come nowhere near.
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