Overhead, the skies were empty. The darkness laid itself in a shroud and the moonlight shone like a stage curtain. No birds, no clouds. Everything was hushed and blank. The only detectable movement was slight wind blowing gum wrappers and straw bits around their ankles.
Swishy decided against alerting Trey to the collecting darkness. His one human advantage was the density, the unawareness. He was happy for Trey and watched him scarf hotdog after hotdog. Swishy would just have to watch his back...
Because there was a change, a troublesome one: the curses were closing in.
Swishy peered down the endless pathway before him. The darkness morphed and shifted and gathered into a black jam. The distant blob bounded towards them, slowly, gradually, collecting more of the ambient shadows in its ever-expanding mass. The peeves...they were coming...and for once they had nothing to say. Swishy sensed the cards burning within Trey's pocket: DETERMINATION, DESTINY, DUTY.
The peeves were focused; the peeves had a mission.
The roiling darkness surged forth with a singular focus to claim the city. The darkness traveled swiftly, tearing through the city's soul. The distant citizens resumed their business without a care in the world. They packed up their shops and cleaned their stalls and politely conversed. It was always like this, the way folks didn't care about the curses around them.
And they were unwittingly protected by the cultural curse armor that they habitually and thoughtlessly used. Swishy could feel the pocketed and hair-pinned and ear-tucked blackflowers sucking in whatever darkness they could. He perceived the powerful gold-straw incense summoning a rising, peeve-snatching smoke up into the sky.
He also identified a new practice, straw effigies standing sentry outside of people's homes in all shapes, all sizes—whatever form they wanted their God to be. There was an orange-wheat mannequin modeling streetwear outside of COBBLESTONE KINGS. A gold-straw Buddha in a donut shop window. And outright scarecrows, featureless straw faces warding darkness with their gold-straw radiance.
Swishy shuddered. He popped several feathers into his mouth instead of just one.
Trey chowed down as well, smacking loudly, the glizzy king down to just three.
Wow! What a monster!
As the darkness rolled on, indiscriminately exploring the nooks and crannies of Straw City, crawling and laying upon and evaluating—never damaging, never marring in any way—Swishy effortlessly solved the mental arithmetic. Ruby's MIDNIGHT spell prematurely caressed the Straw City atmosphere, drawing in the settlement's latent catastrophe and chaos. The grim energies charged up.
What does MIDNIGHT do? Can Ruby stop it? Does she even want to?
Swishy detected one last change, an unfamiliar facet of the undulating peeves: red energy.
He'd never seen a hexed aura quite like this. If this redness had existed in his darkness, he'd have fled into the light long ago. The red energy crackled. It snapped. Like Swishy's eyes, it shaped into familiar forms, predatory ones: Tremendous, pointed eyes. Chainsaw rows of serrated teeth. A humongous, gaping mouth.
They came upon a supermarket with an outdoor food area, and Swishy glanced at a man who ate a pure beef patty on a blackwheat bun, tearing viciously into it, causing a scattershot of sesame seeds around him. With every bite of blackwheat, the chewed end appeared to leak darkness and redness.
The blackwheat! That's what's moving the dark! That's what's causing the red!
Now, in the tense night, the viciousness of Swishy's dark-straw revealed itself. But he didn't know what to do. He reached for the back of Trey's parka, sticking close, surveilling for shadowed foods.
Upon their progression, the conversations were buzzing. Those who'd attended the sermon were more than eager to spread the word of Swishy. They wanted everyone to get in on the quest to attain wings.
Swishy tugged at Trey to stop. They leaned their heads into a conversation happening right around the corner, one that was quickly becoming heated. A group of followers were shopping at a clothing stand called SHADOW COUTURE AND MORE which exclusively sold shadowclaw feather clothing. The plumage was of a high grade. The scarecrow could tell even though clothing was a new concept to him. His own collar had drawn people's eyes, hypnotizing them in the expensive darkness. And now the followers wanted in on those riches.
"May we see your other wares?" The customer asked.
"Do you have the ching for that?" The vendor tapped his foot rapidly, the answer to his question already made up.
"That's not a question for a customer. Who inspects the contents of a customer's wallet?"
"You're not a customer if you're not buying," the vendor huffed. He straightened his tailored vest and brushed the street dust off his dark loafers. Black clothes paired with gold and chunky rings, a Straw City capitalist if there ever was one.
"This is insulting!"
"If you're so insulted then make more money. Your stand is the potato one, right? You make good money but not COUTURE money. Shoo, shoo, I have a Dark Harvest to plan for. I cloth the rich and fabulous. Now go chew some Swish-wheat and try to remember that you don't—and can't—shop here."
The customer gritted his teeth in seething frustration, before spotting Swishy and his winglet rounding the corner. "You realize I'm purchasing for Swishy. My fine friend deserves these feathers."
The vendor looked the customer up and down. "What color are you?"
"What kind of tailor is blind?"
"Just answer the question."
"Brown, obviously. Hazelnut, if we're being specific."
"Okay Hazelnut, well guess what? Trey is BLACK, and he's the only one who handles Swishy. Trey sows and we reap. So get your broke self away from my stall so I can attend to a real chinged-up patron like the ones behind you," The man nodded his head toward Swishy and Trey.
Trey waved but Swishy was too shocked to react—both Hazelnut and the vendor were chewing blackwheat chews, the debris coating their lips like pepper. Their insides glowed from a foggy, red aura. The scarecrow stayed on high alert.
Hazelnut, insulted, brimming with internal redness, gnashed at his black-chew and threw a fistful of coins at the waistcoat-wearing vendor.
Mr. Shadow Couture shielded himself with his forearms, and instantly plucked off one of his pinky rings and beaned Hazelnut in the forehead, leaving a bloody S-shaped wound. Shadow Couture struck with a vengeance.
"Bodyguards!" Shadow Couture yelled. "Get him!"
Swishy and Trey looked around, not seeing anyone around them, when suddenly two of the feather-vested mannequins sprung to life—snitchtalons in disguise. They leaped out at the Hazelnut, pecking him, clawing him. They jeered things only Swishy could understand.
Swishy? You think we care if you name-drop Swishy? He's nothing and you're nothing. I know you were at his little performance—straw baby's first riot. I saw you attack our kin! We'll show you a real attack! Shame on you! Shame on your mother for birthing you! Shame on your disgusting ancestry for passing on your genetic failure! How disgusting of you to draw breath…This is Ruby's air! HER breath! Give it back! Give it back! Give it back! Give it back!
In a couple of mere seconds, Hazelnut's skin and clothes were shredded.
Swishy lunged towards the scene, dodging Trey's grasping hand. As soon as the snitchtalons saw him one of them spit out a gob of the man's blood at Swishy and flew away. You're next!
Nearby onlookers threw rocks, pelting a couple of the retreating snitchtalons. The birds glided off shakily, shedding feathers. The people caught the feathers and held them up to Swishy. They smiled nervously, seeking validation. "Here Swishy! An offering for your wings!"
Stuck to their teeth, were the remnants of black gum—the unlocked redness of which burrowed into their lungs.
Swishy didn't want to take the feather offering. Not at all. Something was wrong, positively broken to tell the truth. Trey's movements were also steeped in hesitation. They needed time to think but no coherent thoughts would come to the scarecrow in the thick night. A powder keg. A cartoon TNT with an ever-diminishing ignition wick.
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Trey reached over and grabbed the feathers and laid them atop Swishy's half-eaten wreath. "Thank you," he said.
Swishy took the feathers and enthusiastically ate them, playing pretend, choosing to eat crow for the sake of his anti-Ruby forces.
Ugh! Ugh! Blergh!
The snitchtalons were gone but Shadow Couture stomped hell into Hazelnut. There were two blackwheat strips hanging from his mouth this time, rapidly disappearing. He stomped, he kicked, he swiped his handkerchief to the tip of his scuffed loafers. And then another bout of stomp-kick-wipe. Heckling too, of course. He contemptuously declared that Hazelnut was getting poor all over his claw-feathered shoes. His words kept tempo with his stomps. "This. Is. My. Shop. Come. With. Real. Ching. No. Money. No. Nothing. Now. GO!" He punctuated his attack with a soccer punt to the ribs.
"What are you doing!" Swishy's desperately bristled, jumping in Shadow Couture's face.
The man stared down at the scarecrow. He straightened his suit and adjusted his pocket square into a voluminous rose pattern. The once vicious scowl now became a benevolent smile. His two gold teeth shined down on Swishy. Despite the boy's panic, he couldn't help being impressed by the man's shiny mouth. He'd never seen one before.
Couture sure is something...
"Hello, Swishy. Welcome to SHADOW COUTURE (moi) AND MORE. I apologize for the messiness. I had to protect my wares, you see, and save them for one such as yourself. What does a VIP desire? I can re-feather your collar. I can give you a coat. Perhaps a feather for your hair-straw? While you think please allow me..." He produced another handkerchief and swiped at the dirt flecks on Swishy's black Timbs. As this was going on, Swishy was distracted by Trey's swiveling neck. Off in the distance, there were occasional hotspots of conflict. Nothing like the shadow couture beatdown but tense nonetheless. Swishy focused, extending his soul sensitivity outwards to pick up on the nature of the disagreements.
Let go! Give it back! Those feathers are mine! These are Swishy's offerings...SWISHY'S!
And there was one last part, something detected by traditional hearing, no soul-play necessary: CACAW! A human one, a bird-soul in man-body one, a cry which was countered by a flurry snitchtalon caws.
"Oh my..." Trey whispered.
The snitchtalons were on the attack. They'd fled the plaza but now ambushed the isolated, unsuspecting sermon attendees. Based on Swishy and Trey's demonstration, the snitchtalons knew that feathers were the objective. While they hated scarecrows, a scarecrow with wings outright terrified them. It was all fun and games when Swishy was grounded. But flying? The sprouted winglet shook their hell-raising souls.
Swishy watched the mayhem in awe, feathers from dreamcatchers and jewelry and clothing and house decorations flying up from their tipped-over stands and containers—
A sudden pressure around his shoulders, the weight of clothing. Swishy faced forward as Shadow Couture worked his fashionista magic. While Swishy was distracted, the man treated him as a perfect mannequin. He'd re-plumed the collar and given him an ankle-length cape. The shroud was velvety and dark, a silken shadow lifting stylishly with even the most minor of movements. The effortless animation of the cape reminded Swishy of the dramatized idle animations from his RPGs. Swishy searched for the words to express a hasty thanks so he can leave.
"Thank you for making me a game hero!"
"Of course, Lord Swishy. You're a video game. You're a hero. You're shadowy couture, if I do say so myself. You're everything to this town and to our monetary futures." Shadow Couture eyed Swishy as more prize than soul. The devil inside was red and blooming.
Swishy seized uncomfortably. He tried to get used to the obsessive attention—he needed to. His survival depended on it. But it was hard, so, so hard...
Trey tugged him away and rushed off.
"Thank you, sir!" Trey said, not even bothering to offer ching notes as he usually did. There was no time, and there was even lesser point, but Swishy could tell this bothered him from the low groan of embarrassment.
"It's okay, Trey. I left a tip."
"But I hold your money."
Swishy lifted an index finger to the sky, un-gloved, glowing straw curling around the fingertip in a golden vine. "I put a couple of chews in his pocket. I hope he calms down."
"Good move, Swish. Bro was vicious."
"He beat the red goop out of him."
"I forgot we didn't do biology."
"Biology? You're using more strange words..."
"It's blood."
"Blood."
"Yes, it's in all humans. Without it, we're nothing."
"Nothing?" Swishy slowed his walking pace, honing his concentration on Trey's magical pocket. He felt around the deck with his soul, sliding between the gaps in the cards, but he couldn't find anything on the frequency of the described concept.
Trey looked down at Swishy, chuckling at his magical word search. "You're not gonna find those words in this deck. I have some hurtful ones, but not ones like Ruby's got. It's better I explain rather than having you absorb them."
"Okay, Trey. How do you become nothing? I don't know what blood has to do with nothing. Blood is something. It's red. It's goopy. And it looks very painful to lose..."
"You're exactly right. Red, goopy, painful to lose. Without blood, we'd shrivel and cease."
"Like a dead balloon."
"Spot on, Swishy. Spot on."
Swishy rubbed his rounded pumpkin-y chin, mimicking the serious thought of dads he'd seen around town. "Being a human is a lot scarier than I thought."
"Maybe we should be scarecrows." Trey spun around in a playful T, channeling the sacred secrets of Swish-God play.
"And in the next performance, I can break you!"
Trey's mouth puckered into a shocked 'O'.
Swishy sniggered like a mischievous fiend.
(...)
An alleyway—a small one, a cramped one, and one that Trey signaled they should go into.
"That's small Trey..."
"Here's the shortcut. We call it The Snake. From here it's a straight shot to the library."
And so they entered—Swishy first, then Trey, the scarecrow trying his bravery on for size.
The night was dark, its terrors immaculate, and as they traversed the pinched alleyway they stayed sensitive to the overwhelming enigma of Straw City, its size, its shadows, its constant ebb and flow of cursed energy. They felt it in the air. Every wind that blew through Swishy weaved in and around his tight network of straw, gliding along the shape of his soul. He loved the dark, but not like this. The shadowy wind had come to tell him that there was chaos in the dark that he'd soon come to meet.
Swishy's one true refuge was corrupted within the confluence of Straw City. Of its opportunistic people. Of curse-craze and capitalistic gain. Of Ruby, Ruby, Ruby.
But he controlled the restless swimming of his soul as they navigated the narrow Snake. The path wound through several sections of the city, a covert route on the backside of homes and shops and public storefronts. Nothing to buy or sell. No decorations other than the occasional clothesline or back balcony straw pots. The normal vibe was unassuming, exactly what the snitchtalons were banking on.
Swishy couldn't see them but he certainly heard them: distant caws, close caws, and caws addressed directly at him.
They exited The Snake and came upon a small park.
"Almost there," Trey pointed across the sandbox and slide and seesaws to the library's entrance. The library was humongous, three stories high with floor-to-ceiling windows and a fortified wooden frame. Orange-wheat was the decoration of choice, arranged in black pots all along the windows. Gold-straw filled the planters around the perimeter of the library. And a hanging pot of blackflower right above the doors, sapping bad energies before entering the hall of words.
THE STRAWBRARY, read the glowing letters. Swishy flinched at the name. "That's ugly."
"Sure is," Trey shrugged. "Thankfully we're here for the books and not the branding—"
WHIIIRRRR!
An industrial cacophony tore through the park as a worker's leaf blower blasted shadowclaw feathers everywhere. There were several humans, protesting Swish-followers, yelling at the man and even reaching for him. But the work simply upped the blow-setting, drowning them out. The complainers were park volunteers as well, women and men in their headscarves and gardening aprons. They tightened their grips on their work equipment, too, spades and brooms and rakes and one man with a leaf blower.
"Swish-god needs feathers! Stop blowing them away."
"Do you see this gardening gear? Do you see this blower? You do understand what my JOB is?"
"Don't you care that he needs the feathers? The boy must fly!"
He shut the leaf blower off and gave everyone judging stares. "So the crop stagnates? Do you people even think? You want to give our success...wings? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"He has blessed us with his heart. What more do you want?"
"The same thing we all want! His next heart you numbnut." Swishy stopped where he stood. His soul pulse throbbed in his head, his wing, and his chest. He wanted a heart, he wanted joy, but dreaded the inevitability of someone spending it—like the shameless man before him.
Swishy locked eyes with the man, who casually puffed his cigarette. That's when the scarecrow noticed it: the licorice-black filter between his lips.
The man continued. "Ruby gave us the gift of Swishy. I only want what Ruby intended to give. I want all of it. If she's not done, then I'm not done. Look how healthy that boy is. There's more seed in him yet, I bet."
And to Swishy's terror, a few passersby nodded their heads in agreement, chiming in with: Yeah! I can see that. He's right. Swishy is just a Ruby spell. He's really just here for us.
The man took a long drag, then exhaled—and Swishy flinched at the red smoke which only he could see. The leaf blower whirred back to life, blasting feathers—and blasting red smoke towards the dissenters too.
An old woman threw her spade at the man—who missed thankfully. But then she kicked up dirt, blinding him. He dropped his leaf blower and cried out for help.
Another man grabbed the lady, who, possessing a talent for dramatized enfeeblement, countered with a save-me of her own. "He hit me with the leaf blower. It hurts. My back! My shoulders! My osteoporosis!"
A confusing melee ensued. Swishy at least hoped that nobody would trip over the machinery or bleed out like the customer at Shadow Couture's.
Trey patted Swishy on the shoulder. "The library is just right past them. You ready?"
"Never ready but always willing."
"What a brave soul."
"Heart-healthy!" Swishy brightened, doing his best. His cereal box-top inspiration empowered him. "But Trey—hold your breath."
"Why?"
"Just trust me."
"Okay."
And they launched into the fighting crowd, ducking the mayhem of arms and feet and curse words and gardening tools. They broke through the cloud of suspended feathers, Swishy catching some in his hands and mouth. He could feel his winglet thicken with every feather. Both of them dodged and twisted and stumbled, clumsily making it past the disorder.
The library. Beautiful and unobstructed. Trey looked at Swishy, panting and smiling; and Swishy looked back, his oculars bubbling with dozens of tiny hearts.
They sprinted for the entrance, pumping their arms like proper track stars.
Twenty paces away, then ten paces, five paces.
Three, two, one...
"We made it!" Swishy declared as he flung open the door. "Trey, we did it! Trey, you hear me? Trey, Trey...I'm swishing to you. Swish-swish, Trey, swish-swish!"
But when Swishy turned around Trey wasn't there. He scanned the park and all he saw were the cluster of people, haplessly and stupidly fighting.
Tap! An object softly rapped against his head. He picked it up—Trey's cross.
Jesus, the beloved scarecrow of Clayhearth.
Swishy jerked his head into the sky, the moonlight showing a horrible sight. There was Trey, diminishing by the second, getting flown farther and farther away by several snitchtalons. There were no CACAWS, no taunts, no shrieking shadows as was usually the case—only talons gripping onto Trey's shoulders. The birds did their work silently for once.
Swishy had nothing to say either. He was speechless, swishless, and Trey-less too.