A story for Valentines day- I am basically a romantic at my core.

At long last the fateful day had arrived and Margaret, dressed in her finest Sunday frock, gingerly picked up her Wanga doll and carried him outside into the warmth of the August afternoon… She had lovingly made the doll by hand and she looked with contentment at her handy work and a satisfied sparkling glint in her eyes revealed that she was evidently thrilled with her handy work. Margaret had expertly designed and constructed it precisely to scale of the man she so desperately had wanted to meet. She had fashioned him to be tall and lean. She had willed upon him to be the strong silent protective type. But above all, her perfect man, needed to share her passionate love of her farm and of the outdoors. After almost four years of frantic studying, and reading virtually everything written on the subject she was finally ready. Margaret understood that after today she would never be alone again, and that her purposeless sad existence was about to change forever. Margaret anxiously sat down on the porch step of her house and scanned the vista of the vast farmland she had inherited. Sighing heavily, she began unhurriedly, yet purposefully, chanting rhythmically the old ancient words she had uncovered. As she spoke she manipulated her doll to dance on the step with her hands, precisely as the instructions of the ancient text had advised her to do. This continued uneventfully for a few moments, then her chant became more intense, her rhythm faster, and the timbre of her voice more frenzied… Suddenly her sixth sense told her that someone was approaching and her eyes strained into the distance. Her heart beat quickened in anticipation for any moment now she comprehended beyond question that her perfect man was soon going to be in her sight. She would never again have to sleep in her large cold bed alone. She began chanting the magic even faster now and the Wanga doll in turn quickened his step. Surely the moment was close. Then all at once she glimpsed a figure on the dusty horizon marching directly towards her. She stared into the sunlight to try and discern his features, yet the glare blurred his image. She continued her chat, now in nothing more than a whisper, as she watched the figure drawing slowly closer, then closer still. Margaret’s whole body tingled deliciously in excitement, soon her nightmare would cease, and she would never again know the misery of growing old alone. At long last she would have a man to hold her, to listen to her, and to love her. Ultimately the figure swung open the creaking gate and Margaret could finally see the man of her dreams. He was indeed tall, and certainly the sort to protect her and share her love of the outdoors… She abruptly dropped the doll and screamed out loud, as she recognized the figure now grinning at her… It was her scarecrow.

P.S. Gifford

P.S. Gifford is a published horror author of great talent. He started submitting stories around 2005. His short stories are by far some of the best and most entertaining that I have read. Around that time he was invited to write columns which are titled "Paperback Writer."

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