Member-only story
The Bride of Unbecomings
Every autumn, they bring her out to play.
Some villages prop scarecrow men up in their fields to fend off the flocks of birds that plague the area. I’ve seen the flannel-covered effigies, their straw hair peeking out from wide-brimmed straw hats. They’re quite funny-looking, but Mother says I must never say so in front of them. It’s not polite.
But here in Gallows we string up carved wood women dressed in wedding shifts. Their veils sway like gauzy sheets in the wind, and every unmarried girl has one with her name etched into the bark of the body. Mine sits like a grump among the cornstalks, and I just know no young man will pluck her from the labyrinth and steal her away to secure my heart and all my promises. Even the rouge I added to her browned cheeks makes her look more like a heart-eating monster from one of my older sister’s stories.
I do feel bad for Marnie Lowell, though. Her parents are getting desperate since this is the fourth year Marnie’s bride has been left to the birds. Every autumn, they bring her out to play, and it’s always the same — except for the one year Danny Henderson and his friends had an egg-throwing contest to see how many yolks could spatter the untouched bride. If I squint now, I can even see the remnants of dried egg on the veil.
