Jory’s Crow-Croak Carnival — Past the crooked fence, Jory stuffed his sleeves with straw and set three rules for Crow-Croak Carnival: flap once for a bat, creak twice for the porch, and say “caw-ha!” whenever the wind tickled the corn. Read the full story →
Past the crooked fence, Jory stuffed his sleeves with straw and set three rules for Crow-Croak Carnival: flap once for a bat, creak twice for the porch, and say “caw-ha!” whenever the wind tickled the corn. The dry stalks rasped like paper brooms. The old farmhouse answered with a squeak from a loose shutter, so Jory bowed to it. “Your turn, tall house.”
The game grew bigger. Bats stitched black zigzags under the moon, and every boarded window gave a different clack-clack, thunk-thunk, skree. Jory wiggled so hard his patched coat shed straw. Then the twist came from above: the chimney coughed out a puff of soot shaped exactly like a music note, and the house was not haunted by groans at all. It was practicing.
Jory laughed a joy too huge for one scarecrow and waved both stick arms toward the corn. The crows hopped closer, the fence posts tapped, and the bare trees shook their twiggy fingers like conductors. Next time you spot the little bat shape above the porch, listen for the whole lane calling, “caw-ha!” past the crooked fence.
