A BOY ON THE RUN, a boy loosed in fear and self-loathing as the enemy spells chased after him.

After a time, he sensed ZUFFERING and ZIN and ZORROW lose steam, the spells finally dissolving. But the curses chased after him, foggy enforcers that flew through every surface, grossly unimpeded. Swishy sprinted at max speed but couldn’t lose the pursuers. And like every entity that dared pass into Straw City, they indulged in the abundant pleasures of talking way too much. Stay! Stay! We just want to talk. Talking is a joy. Dialogue is the path to connection! Hey, Swish-boy! Where are you going?

Swishy distrusted the familiar cadence of cursed speech. He suspected the souls belonged to birds he might’ve eaten. The snitchtalons weren’t kidding: if you died Ruby could make use of you anyway. The current usage was obvious: patrolling and guarding The Curseworks.

He shuddered, he cringed, and he picked up the pace. And he even ran from Trey—though he craved him all the same. He wished for his friend’s hand, the steadiness of his soul. Swishy would dive into Trey’s spirit, that oasis of rationality and calmness. But Trey was somewhere behind him, failing in his pursuit. He trusted his friend’s judgment with conjured intents, but the curses ruined the lesson.

“Stupid dead-souls!” Swishy said. “I’ll never stop for you!”

Swishy…we’re everywhere? Why run? We can teleport above you, below you, and even inside you. Please, stop, stop. Let us talk. We can converse like people.

“I would’ve talked if you didn’t lead with spells.”

We could’ve yes. But please understand us. You’re in our home. We’re quite territorial and we don’t apologize for that, but we can talk now. Slow down, slow down. The time for diplomacy is now.

“Is it? I can’t believe that.”

It’s 11:59. Paused time is a diplomatic move if we’ve ever seen one.

“Time’s not paused. You’re lying.”

Now, now, little straw boy. We won’t get anywhere without trust.

“Fine, say MIDNIGHT isn’t here yet—what happens when time continues?”

We’re doing diplomacy so you don’t have to find out.

“There’s millions out there, I sense them. Ruby raised an army. What’s with that, huh?” Swishy perceived a change in the clouds, a thickening of the dead air all around. MIDNIGHT had gathered around the city like a stage curtain, its population of curses enough to fill a country. New blood. New souls. The entities awaited the opening act—an act set to start upon Ruby's desire to steal the show.

Army is the wrong word. LOVE is the word. You won’t find a curse around here that doesn’t love Ruby. They’re simply a population, a city, a civilization.

“Ugh.”

Swishy wouldn’t be fooled—and so he ran. The passing scenery saddened him. The sky appeared lower, darker. The cobblestones were losing their subtle edges, becoming invisibly black. Even the blue contours of the tree trunks and knots and branches gradually faded to black. The only ambient lights were from the gold luster of falling leaves.

All light receded with every step he took. The deeper Swishy progressed, the deeper the darkness became. Evidence of MIDNIGHT was everywhere.

Swishy raised his rake upwards as a luminous, gold-straw torch. But his gilded straw flaked away in chips. Beneath the luminous golds arose blackwheat bristles which climbed along the length of the rake handle and into the prongs. The glow remained—though blotted and inconsistent.

Are you scared, dear boy? Didn’t pay your light bill? Hahaha, LIGHT-en up! It’s just us—your friends!

Yet the boy sprinted onwards. The dark orbs were after him with their horrible, horrible voices, wishing him ill, wishing him quiet servitude. He saw their true form. He understood the kind of hearts the curses would have if they had them. He thought to the parents who wished for Swishy’s magic for themselves, the resulting families of broken scarecrows. He thought to Ruby throwing his heart out the window. He was loved, supposedly, so long as he paid. Parents paid up front, and children—Swishy included—paid later.

ZLAVE, that terrifying combination of letters. A voodoo doll version of himself popped into his head. His mindscape multiplied with several and then dozens and then hundreds of Swishy dolls, their arms small and rounded, no hands, no thumbs, no escape. They were buried waist-deep into planters, in scarecrow position—but un-fun and immobile. The swishlings were enslaved, scared souls in scarecrow cages.

The price of one heart was a lot for him. But what about his next heart? Would he have to pay every heart he’d ever have? No matter how gold? No matter how much he cherished the feelings inside? And what of the swishlings? What of their bodies and general well-beings?

His gourd leaked out soulful tears. He wished the darkness would declare its limit. He wished the darkness would leave him with something for himself. He wanted to ask how much was enough. But the words wouldn’t come out. By now he knew that the darkness wouldn’t say.

“The shadows snitch on everything except themselves…”

Snitch? What manner of word is that? Elaborate, please.

“Stalking, being nosey. Minding business—and bodies—that aren’t your own.”

Ah, so we’re snitches…Interesting, interesting…

The curses smiled, wide-wide-wide, from ear to Cearth-bound ear.

And then they attacked.

Dark tendrils rose from the ground and crawled up Swishy’s stomach, his arms, his neck and head. “Oh, no you don’t!” Swishy yelled. He forcibly grew more straw within his chest, barring the curses from his core. But that didn’t stop the curses from attempting infiltration. The black vines weaved around each straw layer, maneuvering the cardiac maze within.

Despite his mad dash towards who-knows-where, Swishy lost his rye colors and hints of gold. He stared in horror at his hands, their sudden blackness. He felt his insides dry and decay, uncontrolled blackwheat growth killing him inside.

“Life and light are so easy to steal. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.”

But he wouldn’t give in. Happy thoughts begets golden wheat, a simple truth, albeit difficult to achieve. He wasn’t in The Curseworks for himself anymore. His ocular blues receded into thin blue dots as he concentrated, cultivating gold, cultivating hard-to-come-by happiness. He calmly created new golds, light woven barriers against the curses’ heart-hungry vines.

Stop being stubborn, young scarecrow. Have a heart…

The vines wriggled through him but Swishy’s straw growths lodged a successful defense. The blackwheat receded, his limbs returning to a mix of gold and rye.

While fending off the attack he sharpened his focus, and studied the situation at hand:

With closed eyes, he allowed his soulful radar to expand, scoping out the surrounding 10, 20, 30, even 50 meters.

The first thing he found was Trey, the shape of his soul strolling about, turning and searching and exhibiting all the patience Swishy should’ve had. How dumb of me, heh… Unfortunately, Trey was surrounded in curses, a resting legion awaiting a prime moment to strike. Myst swirled about him too, whispering in his ear, liking taunting him with one horror or another.

He was afforded a split second of relief—until keying into The Curseworks’ entrance. The nebulous door opened for a barrage of entering souls, then closed right afterwards. He grouped the new arrivals to the realm in three categories: fast souls, slow souls, and medium souls.

The fast ones were few in number—and large too. One in particular was an enormous bird soul speeding along, its spirit wrathfully flaring. Bristles—it could be no one else. Swishy could make out the other prominent presences, speedy and eager, strong and scary. But they’d escaped the fallen city, taking refuge within the land of opportunity known as the dark. He’d have to watch out for these.

The slow souls were next, dozens of presences which shuffled along in weakness. Swish-swish, he faintly heard. These were the parents, the various other adults, scarecrow stragglers that crawled beyond the Straw City wreckage. A harrowing discovery, but unsurprising all the same. Straw was one commodity of the settlement, and darkness was another.

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What disturbed Swishy most were the medium-speed travelers, over a dozen in total. These were the smallest ones, adorable specks on his radar. They blipped along rhythmically, bounding towards the unknown.

“Friggin’ Swishlings! A break, a break, I’d give anything for a break!”

Swishy’s eye-rolled with spin cycle voracity before relaxing. He’d rather the kids were in the shadows than incinerated in the blimp fire. The curses retracted their vines, ceasing their attack—or rather, trading their physical assault for a verbal one. Swishlings? What a cute name. These kids sure can take care of themselves. Perhaps they run as fast as you. Maybe they have as much gold-straw to spare…What do you think? Should we go see? Several vines waved in the air, the curses forming into a vile kraken.

To Swishy’s credit, he ignored the threat. He took it seriously but kept his mind steady, allowing his pride in the Swishlings to override his worries for them. The gold-straw returned to him then, the gold-straw enlivening his rake-torch. Through prong-light, he glanced around, turning in a 360.

He was in a circular clearing of human-height blackwheat. The pitch was significant, but the blue contours returned. He remembered the name for this. A crop crown? A wheat circle? Blackwheat all around, swaying like living walls. A cage? Yes, he decided, A cage.

Swishy curled his hands around his rake, a couple blackwheat vines spreading around the handle. Perhaps he’d start with a talk. In any case, he had to see where this would go.

“Fine, I’m listening.”

The darkness spoke to Swishy. Hi scarecrow, welcome to The Curseworks. Or should I say welcome back. The curses laughed at its own joke, before other curses began to join in, two, three, several, dozens. The voices were all-consuming, a full audience giving Swishy their attention. The scarecrow looked around at the darkness, unable to find the souls. It was a strange feeling for the souls to be non-traceable, for the pitch to hide its secrets from him.

Let’s start easy. Our name is E____.

Swishy head-tilted. The curses spoke as one entity but said several names starting with E. He nodded along and listened, honing in on the most prominent of the crew.

Emi-Emilio-Eren-Emily all began to speak, introducing themselves at the same time, quadruple voices representing the whole. We just are cursed existences. You know how this should go. You’ve been in the altar long enough to know that those of the shadows don’t always have fun. It took us a long time to get to this point, to leave the wretched ways of the cursed complainers behind. We used to be like that once upon a time…and then we met Ruby. Or Ruby met us, saved us, lifted us from the boring, hurtful abyss. We don’t have bodies, we don’t have autonomy. But we swim well, we converse well, but we can never leave the shadows. There was nothing here in this dark, dark world, nothing until Ruby. The spells happened. The options to inhabit bodies and catch us a bit of sun before returning to our home in darkness, our home in family.

“I understand…”Swishy soul-stammered. “When I was in the dark, I forgot that I had a life before that. Even though I was different, even though I didn’t like the curse complainers, I sank into the dark. I liked that life. It wasn’t even life. It was just me, myself, nestling. I didn’t even think. But now you’re telling me I have to do things. That I have to make a new world for you. I think that’s a lot to ask…I was in the shadows without a thought or care or desire or responsibility…Who are you guys—who even is Ruby—to call me, a flap-flap, for anything?”

The shadows audibly buzzed, their groans taking on a mechanical, chain-rattling quality. The Who-Is-Ruby question turned out to not be the most diplomatic move. But The Curseworks was a place where hearts and intentions were on full display. The town was an altar. Lies were vanished. Truths were revealed and manifested.

The scarecrow awaited a response, enduring his stuttering pulse. His heart could take it. He’d prove it by rising to the occasion.

Ruby is upset, young scarecrow. You’ve hurt her. You turned people against her. You made a great mess in the city. Who told you to displace our buildings with trees? Who told you to cause riots? All you had to do was enliven the straw. Ruby asked you for a simple visits. Do you not want to see your benefactor? She created you, your mother. And you’ve made ruin of a city we’ve worked twenty-five years to make.

”I don’t even know what a year is.” Swishy hoped that playing dumb would help. These were innocent mistakes he’d made, collateral damage for his autonomy and freedom. “I’m just a shadowclaw. I’m not even a fighter. I’m a flier. I’m going to leave…But I’m taking my wings first—and I’m taking my heart. You can’t stop me. I won’t let you. I’ll protect myself!” Swishy flapped his wing as crisply as he’d ever done before. His bird nature revealed itself. He only had one wing but his heart supplied the imagination of a second. Flight, flight—he showed the peeves that he meant business.

What will you protect yourself from? The E-squad and its quadrupled voice sneered. Fine, fight the birds. We don’t care—eat as many as you want. But why did you give a sermon? Why a riot? You and your friend destroyed the buildings, Swishy! Our homes! What gives you the right? You had no right—you have no RIGHTS! The city is first, and you are somewhere after.

“If the city is before me, then who else will guard my heart? Me, right? You don’t do anything for me. You wouldn’t let anyone take your heart.”

What do we need hearts for? The E-squad said incredulously. If it was me, I’d gladly give it up! Build heart, give heart. That’s the human way. The purpose of a heart is service. Your heart is only so big with our contribution of love. So why can’t you sacrifice for us? This whole city was built on sacrifice. And your heart isn’t even a real sacrifice—you grow it back anyway! You are Swishy everlasting. With a heart like yours, you can never die. With such infinite healing, do you really suffer? You’re a miracle inside but your actions have harmed us. We’re grieving. We’re dying. Do you feel it? Tune into our souls and learn our suffering.

Swishy followed the path of their logic and careened into barb after barb, growing increasingly offended by the E-squad’s dismissals. “The fact that you don’t see my suffering is all I need to know. You’ll never take from me again. You took my bird body, you took me from the darkness, and now you want my forever…When am I supposed to belong in myself? Hearts and souls stay inside, I know that much. Get your own heart. The altar is here, all around us. Go on, make a wish. Myst is waiting.”

The E-squad paused—simmering, stewing, boiling. Cheeky, cheeky, cheeky…

A tremendous aura formed into a flowing tower, rising in a sinister, distinctly non-diplomatic tumult.

Swishy stood his ground, smirking, a silent scolding of the Emi-Emilio-Eren-Emily’s loss of control. The welcome committee flattened and settled, its four main voices clearing its throat.

We may not know your loss—we simply know never-having. We starved. We were wind, an uncontrollable hurricane that stole the food from our own family’s bodies. We were wind and rain and torn-off roofs and agony…How dare you tell us what we don’t feel? Everybody eats—haven’t you heard us say this? Everybody. Eats. Even you, miracle boy. The cycle is simple: you eat our love, our affection, and in return we eat your heart. Your heart is made by us, for us. We paid in, and you must pay out. A deal is a deal. Don’t cheat us, scarecrow. We’re warning you.

“A deal happens when somebody asks. It happens when you handshake or pinky swear. Ruby and the altar made a deal. Is that hard to understand? Because I can explain again if you need to pass the quiz. If you didn’t ask me, then we don’t have a deal. Maybe if you ASK, then I can DECIDE to give you a straw chew, maybe two.”

The unsettled aura returned, dark waves cresting and breaking. Swishy focused energy into his hands, readying a rake attack.

Without warning, the cursed aura spread over Swishy and the nearby area in a thin fog. The full dark had set upon Swishy, snuffing out his remaining golds. He’d tightened his grip on the rake but the torchlight failed to return.

Drowned in the sea of curses, Swishy was silenced.

The chorus of sugar-wraiths co-signed the notion of Swishy’s misbehavior. The curses emitted at first modest, then loud, and then clamorous ovations. They harmonized in their vehement announcements of yes-absolutely-take-my-heart-plant-me-kill-me-love-me. The shadows had grown limbs which with to cry and prostrate and kneel. The intents of worship all impressed these images into Swishy’s mind, incorporeal curses that slammed the boy’s psyche with the impact of bricks.

Words populated amid the nothingness. GUILT. AGONY. TORTURE. BETRAYAL. Swishy identified that concepts but couldn’t find them within the immediate surroundings. But they were there. They were so thick, so real. They were…(he shrank wilted in dread)…inside him.

“No, stop!” His chest hardened as he spoke, layering in wheat. He armored his heart through straw growths, aiming to turn his torso into a rock. “I don’t deserve to feel this way. I’ll work, I’ll give in a million billion ways. That’s heart and you know it! I won’t be tricked. I’ll never lose heart again!”

Explain what you lost that you haven’t gained back. Speak now. Open to us. Open fully.

The boy didn’t know what more to say. He tried to exit the fog, walking through the cage of looming blackwheat. He stepped forward, one foot in front of the other. With every step he expected to fall into a bottomless pit.

Swishy’s gait was solemn and mournful. His Timberland footfalls were quiet, too quiet. Swishy expected a clomp-clomp yet received none. He experimentally tap-danced but the result was the same: shifting and silent fog. The mysterious black stones provided no feedback, only stolid support.

The boy glanced backwards once more at the disappeared entrance. The shock of missing the un-dark was disorienting. He kept losing himself in the current of his worries, among them:

“There’s no heart here…”

What was that? The curses were keen on his doubts.

“Nothing…”Swishy searched for something safe to say. “We can make a proper deal. We can make things right. Believe in me, the miracle boy.”

The welcome committee had silenced itself. Their unspeaking movement rattled Swishy. It reminded him of hold music whenever Trey settled a bill or tracked down a package from Clayhearth. He anxiously awaited a response. He was already in the conversation so what was there to fear? Who knew—he didn’t, that was for sure.

Emi-Emilio-Eren-Emily returned with a verdict: Okay, as you wish…

A steady crackling occurred. Pockets of darkness softly popped like a shaken soda. The fizz-fizz echoes were bothersome, signaling a possible attack. Perhaps making things right meant fighting an army of snitchtalons all over again. The secrets of the dark weren’t Swishy’s to have—they never were. The old him was comfortable in ignorance, which was an aptly viable way for a bird-soul to chirp along life. But the heart was in him now, the feelings and responsibility. When before he didn’t fear a bit of mysterious carbonation, now his anxiety peaked. His soul sweated through him, blue droplets trickling down his troubled rind.

The fizzing ceased—the popping, the dark shuffling, the everything. No longer were there quadrupled voices with quadrupled names. The cacophony reduced itself to one voice. Only one.

Swishy…my dear.

The woman’s voice tapped against his reflexes with its mesmeric allure: “Yes, Mom?”