DARK FEELINGS, GOLDEN INTENT—this was Swishy's struggle, his cross.
The conjured blackness stretched before him, collapsing the city. But he wanted to protect his insides, and to project a gold-straw salvation to everyone who needed it. The unexpected proliferation of scarecrows was ominous. The straw-bound souls couldn't walk or talk or do themselves and others any good. But the wishes continued—because Straw City was Straw City, its people forever clamoring for evolution.
One by one by one by one, the humans relinquished their bodies to the portal, souls floating and awaiting their preferred forms. Swishy detected an army of vessel-less souls floating in the streets and the alleyways and the insides of homes, astral projecting, their bodies casted to the altar.
And for those initial moments: quiet...the calm before the shadows, the gathering tension before the storm of peeves unleashed their wails. The souls drifted about in expectant anticipation of their manifested wishes.
The changes happened then, abruptly, the freshly crafted vessels materializing around the airborne souls. The humans revealed themselves in the streetlights and torchlights and light-pots of the city, remade, their forms temperate in darkness.
Some souls dragged along as worn-out scarecrows in the night.
Others soared, becoming shadowclaws, wobbling into the sky like Roman candles, trying their hardest to master the function of flight.
And others, the few, the presumably great, had become creatures that Swishy was not yet familiar with. Wrathravens? Possibly. He'd have to go forth and see.
Gulp(!), he thought, unable to convey the gesture through swishing.
Dread closed upon Swishy in a clamp-like fashion [https://img.wattpad.com/5d14c58369937d4c6bbf2d7e376144b703badb84/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f6f744f6759596661474a4b6d65673d3d2d313335363335363037302e313737303063393062646365666265643537373734343932353534372e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]
Dread closed upon Swishy in a clamp-like fashion. The gloom spread through his entire body, hidden beneath his clothes. As the blackwheat multiplied, spidering from his chest into his rib cage and shoulders and arms, the soundtrack of its vile crinkling echoed within him.
Swishy began conceptualizing a new idea. He'd read it in the shadows of The Curseworks. He saw many folks who'd willingly called upon the intent. In all gold, in dreadful and tantalizing glitter, the word appeared: MONSTER.
The boy tried to calm himself within the tempest of impulsivity, but the madness hurricane'd onwards, striking Swishy with the spirit of fright.
Bristles darted throughout the plaza, stalking the perches, searching every awning and lamppost and rooftop and sapling for a hint of bird. The snitchtalons were no better themselves, hiding within the shadows, lying in wait for a Swish-follower—or Swishy himself—to present a turned back. All the while, the humans casted spells and made altar contracts and fist-fought each other. And the darkness(?)—it casually rolled alongside the locals, passing out contracts like hors d'oeuvres.
What do I do? How do I help?
Swishy had a direction, an instinctual compass, the stirrings of his too-good and too-vulnerable heart showing him where to start.
His hands glowed, its generous golds ready for some straw-repair action.
(...)
A gift of moonlight spread the darkness apart, revealing the clock-tower's face: 11:25.
The scarecrow stared ahead at his goal: THE CURSEWORKS. Only two blocks away, short in theory, though the surrounding atmosphere signaled otherwise. The frenzy, the magic, the violence indicated that the road to Ruby, to THE LAST STRAW, was long—and the road to Trey even longer.
Thirty minutes and two blocks—what could go wrong(?). I can do this, I can do this! Self-hype was a thing he'd picked up since the library escape.
And as soon as he set off, the first complication was upon him, the entire path to the Curseworks littered with needy scarecrows.
These were kid-crows, the children of irresponsible make-us-straw-make-us-swish parents.
He then proceeded toward the first kid, a scarecrow with a big gourd head and a thin little body. There was no way that amount of straw could support that amount of pumpkin. The top-heavy form laid upon the cobblestone, shifting—you couldn't even call it a wriggle. The kid-crow was stuck but trying.
Swishy was moved, the blue oculars splitting into broken hearts, before he breathed in deep and collected himself. He reached for the kid's neck, rubbing it, massaging it, infusing the straw with magic. The weaves crossed over and under and in between, tightening in a proper and fortified bind, gold-straw layering and layering into a voluminous and robust scarf.
Next were the shoulders, the arms, the torso. The legs were last—he didn't need a kid running off before he was done.
"All better," Swishy said.
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"Swish-swish!" The boy couldn't talk—Swishy remembered the card aid he'd gotten upon his first time in the city, stacks of lessons for which he was grateful. Missing Trey, he once more channeled him. Swishy reached into his chest, searching through the knots of his enchanted heart, and produced a card: LANGUAGE.
"Here, kid, I hope you learn in no time." He pressed the card to the boy's forehead and the gourd lit up in blue soul, an ecstatic energy pulsing out. The kid couldn't yet control his body but a palpable joy traveled from him, an astral projection of soul. The boy's spirit torso stretched outwards beyond the straw vessel and wrapped Swishy into a hug.
Nuzzle-nuzzle, nuzzle-nuzzle.
The presence was solid—no fazing through, no trick of ghostliness and light. They were real boys, loving and kind.
Swishy sunk into the boy-soul, cherishing the sweet chills of gratitude and care. He just about melted, slipping into euphoria, before the worries returned to him with its haunting winds. Cloud cover passed over the clock tower, obscuring the time. "Okay, I have to go now."
The kid-crow's soul flowed back inside the straw. His motor functions were warming on up. He managed a small wave, twisting his Swish-strengthened wrist.
"Stay put. Play dead, okay? Play hay bale!"
The boy collapsed in a messy, imperfect "T". The blue soul receded from his eyeholes as he splayed out like a video game murder.
"Good kid, you dead-crow with the best of them!"
The edges of the boy's carved mouth stretched into a smile.
Swishy took up the rake and proceeded toward the rest of the children. That was his mission. He'd save the kids, which had nothing to do with saving Trey or opposing Ruby—but everything to do with being noble and right.
Fix the kids, teach the kids...
He searched for other kids to rescue, shilling his gold cure amidst the nearby brutality.
He spotted a leg-less scarecrow in a garden. The girl-crow was erected by an old wooden post stuck into the soil. Her wool sweater was in tatters but the bow atop her head was a fluffy, pristine purple. Upon Swishy's initial approach, he noticed a complication, a trio of snitchtalons perched at the edge of the home's chimney.
The birds glared from Swishy to the kid-crow, and from the kid-crow to Swishy, reading the situation and intentions. Swishy slowed his progress, eyeing the suspicious snitchtalons. He gripped the rake tightly, the coils of blackwheat constricting around the prongs. A stare-down, a sizing up between Swishy and the birds. With each step Swishy took, the birds matched with their own actions—inching forward, spreading their wings, relaying their plot to each other with hushed caws.
The kid-crow looked around, or tried to anyhow, its tragically imbalanced head tipping over too much to one side or the other.
Swishy rushed toward the girl—and the snitchtalons did, too. The birds directly attacked the girl as Swishy defended, obstructing the pecks with his rake. He took wide, arcing swings, shoo-ing the birds away. But the trio were skilled at regrouping, at maintaining the aggressive moment of their attack. They spread out in a triangle and converged upon the staked scarecrow from three different angles, knowing that Swishy couldn't block each one.
But they were wrong—Swishy defended—smacking one bird with a rake swing—the back end of the sweeping attack scaring a second bird. And the third bird(?)—it couldn't be hit, so Swishy grabbed the kid by the collar and yanked her backwards, barely dodging. The bow fell to the ground and Swishy felt the girl's intent to reach for it, her soul pushing against the straw-bound limits.
As Swishy fought the birds, pivoting on his back foot, the kid-crow's soul fussed to her protector. Don't step on my bow! Please, be careful! It's my favorite one! The straw boy paid her no mind, relying on luck to avoid the bow. As the attack flurry persisted, a triangle of fury, neutralizing Swishy's surprising range and speed.
He blocked attack after attack, shielding the girl—whose eyes were peeled widely as Swishy stepped way-way-way too close to her treasured bow.
The snitchtalons upped their tempo, creating blind spots, wearing down the rake warrior's defenses as his reactions became slower and clumsier and uncoordinated. The boy was unsure, indecisive, and trapped. Block after block after block after block, the birds finally opened up a path to the girl-crow's head, and as one snitchtalon dive-bombed its path was impeded by Swishy's own body. The protective scarecrow was stabbed in the shoulder—and eaten too—the bird taking the opportunity to nibble and gnaw and report on the pleasures of consuming prey.
There! The way you're supposed to be. Dinner! That is your purpose! Now stand there and take it—nomnomnom!
Fortunately, Swishy found it easier to fight the other two while the third used him for supper. He lunged at a bird with an overhead swing, slamming it down to the ground, capturing it within a pronged cage. And then he glared at a second bird, the bad feelings stirring inside, which Swishy mentally formed into a dark tendril.
Concentrate, concentrate...
Energy was drawn from his inner chest through his arms and into the rake, its tips producing flexible shoots of blackwheat which chased the second bird down. The snitchtalon dodged once, twice, but was finally lassoed, squeezed, constricted—willfully and vindictively tortured by Swishy.
Two down and one to go, the third bird blissfully eating, enthused and rapturous at its supper time vengeance. It'd failed to notice his defeated kin. Swishy dropped the rake and grabbed the bird with both hands.
Nom? The snitchtalon's confusion became shock which then became terror.
"Nom." Swishy confirmed, ushering the enemy into his shadow-cleansing mouth. The boy experienced the gradual disappearance of the bird in his hands, the once-firm structure loosened and evaporated like saltines in a piping hot broth, becoming less, becoming little more than crummy particles.
No gloating, only fixing...
The girl gazed at Swishy as he immediately set to the work of scarecrow-craft, drawing her torso-straw outwards into the ground. The kid was mesmerized by the trail of glitter which thickened into legs. Swishy lifted her upwards from off her stake and placed her on the ground.
She took a couple experimental steps, balancing naturally upon her rounded straw pegs. A head-tilt, a consideration, and then a telepathic request. Swishy read her expression: Pretty feet, please?
Swishy bent down and conjured a pair of gold-straw ballet shoes, tapering the rounded tips, matching the powerful impression of her intent. He gave her another look, seeing if his business was done. All around them, the darkness swelled, but he focused fully on the trivial details of foot creation. The girl had a last request—just as he expected. Can you tie my shoes?
He stared at the slip-ons he'd created, perplexed, and then he remembered her favorite item. He weaved a tiny bow onto each foot. The girl then skipped over to her purple bow and picked it up. She dusted it off and laid it atop her head like a crown—the contact of which triggered an explosion of joy, her soul illuminated in recognizable, Swish-like fashion.
Thank you, mister! The girl swished.
She didn't need the LANGUAGE arts, advanced and self-assured as she was.
"Anytime!" Swishy said, and then proceeded toward his honest work in the darkness, kid repair, kid construction. He'd make them whole, make them into their best straw selves. "Play dead, okay?"
"I'm no dumb-dumb. I'll find somewhere to hide." She spread her arms into a "T" and then pirouetted out of the street, vanishing into the shadows of the nearest alley.
They didn't ask for this life but Swishy suspected that the kids were having too much fun. After a dose of the gold cure, maybe they wouldn't want to go back.
Perhaps their parents had one thing right: humanity was overrated.