Excerpt From The Scarecrow (Photo by Wendy Werris) I leaned back in my chair and studied the contents of my cubicle. A desk, a computer, a phone and two shelves stacked with files, notebooks and newspapers. A red leather-bound dictionary so old and well used that the Webster's had been worn off its spine. My mother had given it to me when I told her I wanted to be a writer. It was all I really had left after twenty years in journalism. All I would take with me at the end of the two weeks that had any meaning was that dictionary.