Tales From Scarefield
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Been a while!

5/1/2016

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You again? What took you so long? I'm getting pretty long in the tooth to be waitin' on company. But, you're here now, I guess, so there's that. Good to see you. Come sit.

You probably forgot about poor Clara, eh? I certainly never will. I remember it all clear as glass, everyone marching into the forest for our field day. We held a rope between us, so no one wandered off or got lost. The teachers were skittish, kept a very close eye on all of us. It was dark and damp. Quiet, not a peep from the birds or frogs or bugs.


Except Clara. She kept singing, in her clear voice, and it cut through the dark like a beacon. All of us, even Ol' Pinchyface (he was a chaperon that day),  walked tall and breathed easier hearing her. When we stopped for lunch next to Black Swamp Lake, we were even smiling.

Until something moved in the brush...



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    S.M. Gravemore is Scarefield's oldest resident. He lives at the outskirts of town on his farm, with his five dogs, seven cats, three lizards, eighteen spiders, and two cows. Stay off his lawn!

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