Ben stood in the field alone, observing and cold. A bird had pooped in his hair, but there was nothing he could do about it. Stiff jointed and awkward, he wanted to return home, but he found himself frozen. It wasn’t the weather. It was the fact that he just realized he wasn’t alive, but he felt alive. Besides, did he even live in the white house? The red house? The barn?
He couldn’t belong in this dirty garden among the vegetables. He wasn’t a vegetable. He was human, yes?
He wiggled his toes, but he had none to wiggle. He could wiggle his bloated hands though if he tried hard enough. Or was that the wind?
He thought the farmer’s daughter liked him. He winked. She stared. She ran away crying.
He tried to apologize, but instead, piece by piece, the farmer broke him down. He was nothing but hay, a pumpkin head and discarded clothes.
Alone, for always.
But Ben always had the birds. Peck-peck-peck.
