THE CITY WENT WITH HEART. It went with gusto.

Trey struggled to do the same. Last night was arcane, psychotic, dark beyond reason. But the morning flipped the switch: the sun gleamed against Trey's second-story window, the shadowclaws weren't Shugarrian cons masquerading as birds, and the Swish-heart made some crops—that was it—no differently than what Trey watched him do in the open plains.

The Clayborne told himself that nothing really changed, that the clamorous town hadn't kept him awake with their overnight harvest and feasting, that the sudden flood of festival lighting hadn't filled his window, that the Straw is the cure! Straw is the way! chanting died down much earlier than sunrise. And the sight of Swishy sneaking exploratory reaches inside his chest? The moments where Swishy sensed Trey's eyes and quickly reverted to a rigid T-pose? Those were just Trey's tired mind producing lucid nightmares, nothing more.

But Trey knew the truth: that everything happened for real, and that he hadn't gotten a lick of sleep because of it.

The city didn't need sleep, though. The settlement ran off the engine that Swishy had provided: the hope, the heart, the harvest. Everyone was active all night, chanting and drinking and eating—and the morning was no different. There was no tuning out the clamorous town. And there was no convenient memory erasure to scrub Ruby’s soul dominion from his mind. Moving souls into different bodies felt to him like playing God. No human should have that power—and nobody should even be so comfortable doing such a thing.

But Ruby was comfortable—Ruby was the perpetrator—and her followers had happily gone along for the ride. He’d wanted to ask Swishy if he was okay with Ruby not returning his shadowclaw body—but Trey should’ve asked himself that question. Was Swishy just an animal? Was Swishy and the other birds an acceptable form of ethereal cattle?

Trey could make out the distorted intonations of Swishy’s name, the celebratory and worshipful commotion, through his closed windows and mashed his pillow against his ears. He expressly dreaded the day ahead.

Tick! Tick!

The shadowclaws joined in on the auditory hell. Trey tossed and turned in sleepless stress, majorly bugged by the peripheral chaos of shadowclaws zooming by his window. Their imperfect flight occasionally scratched against the building, the pestering ticks sanding down his composure.

Swishy pressed his face to the window, studying their avian bodies, rustling out suggested names for the Straw City phenomena of hijacked birds: "Wraithclaws? Is that good? Maybe Sugarwings? Ruby Birds! Hey Trey, please listen. I want to call them Ru-birds."

They're all fuck-wings to me! Trey screamed within his vexed, exhausted mind. But he decided to be gracious to Swishy's innocent sensibilities. He ambled out of bed while releasing a prolonged "Hmm..." before offering a suggestion. "They're snitchtalons, Swishy."

The Swishy head-tilt, always the head-tilt. He waited patiently for a card.

"There’s no card for this one, Swish. Because snitches are vile. They'll spoil the deck." Trey was hitting a rhythm now. He maneuvered about the room, reaching for deodorant, mouthwash, his hair pick, the like.

Swishy's eyes formed twin exclamation points, the alarm overflowing from his gourd sockets.

"You're right to be shocked. Snitchtalons tell others about what you're doing. They talk about where you're at. They even report on how they think you feel. Even right now, they're spying on us—on you, actually. Their eyes are everywhere Swishy. Their eyes are extremely troublesome."

"The snitchtalons are peeves...nosey ones."

"Exactly! In fact, any snitching critter is worse than a peeve." Trey stepped over to the deck on the nightstand, drew a card, and flicked it toward Swishy without even looking. The scarecrow stared, positively galled by the alarming, embroidered truth: IRREDEEMABLE.

Swishy tossed the card into his mouth—which disintegrated into black flakes, thoroughly scorched by his indignant soul.

"That's right! Snitches are irredeemable. And that's why we're going to do something about them."

"I'll tear them from the sky!"

"That's my boy!" Trey held out his hand and immediately received the prompted hi-five. I'll teach him FORGIVENESS later, Trey decided. But forgiveness doesn't protect. Forgiveness opens you, and Swish has been opened enough. Since the Swish-heart had taken root, Trey knew he'd remain as the scarecrow's official liaison, his handler, his babysitter. For starters, Trey was good at it. Daps, hugs, unique vocab words—Swishy was living the life! But for a few seconds, painfully obvious and noteworthy seconds, Swishy fidgeted from the lesson about snitchtalons. Swishy’s feared Ruby—anyone could see that.

Right on cue, a Ruby text: Get Swishy to touch the plants today. Let him bless the crops, the flowers, everything. Freshen the place up!

The crops are fresh already, Trey messaged back. They already sprouted from Swishy’s heart.

Please Trey. Even if they don't need tending, I want him to get used to the habit. Think of it as his job! His playful responsibility!

That's a cute way to put it.

Of course, Trey. Because he's a cute boy. Now treat him good! The better we treat him, the faster his next heart grows!

Trey's nerves snapped like taut wire as he read and re-read the words. The scheme was crystal-ball clear. Swishy didn't have one heart. Only one heart at a time. A heart to harvest, a heart to regrow. He messaged Ruby back just to make sure: Good vibes grow hearts?

Come on, Trey. It's the same with people. Everybody knows that! So for now, you don't have to do The Curseworks. They're not ready yet.

Are you going to cultivate that dark straw? Trey stared at his phone, anticipating the answer—but he already knew what it’d be.

What a mystery, that stuff! Only time will tell! When it comes to magic, what do we really know? Have a good day! A smiley face, a fairy wand, the gold sparkles—though there wasn't an emoji around that could take the edge off Ruby being Ruby.

Meanwhile Swishy had thrown on his coat and gloves and scarf and treasured black Timbs. He searched his pockets and his gaseous eyes glowed as he pulled out his treasure, a handful of shadowclaw feathers. He stuck them in his neck as a collar, then struck a noisy T-pose: "Ready!"

(...)

STRAW IS THE CURE, the town's new slogan, was emblazoned across the digital display board on the city's zeppelin. The message circled the town, fortifying everyone's hope. After the sudden growth event inspired by what locals called the Swish-heart, the town's straw worship intensified. Media master Ruby is at it again, Trey lamented, utterly confused at what'd suddenly become of the city. Swishy kept his eyes level in front of him, straining to ignore the blimp overhead. The boy focused, strengthening himself for the day. Trey just drummed a beat on Swishy's gourd head and patted his shoulder. "Chin up! One day you'll become a shadowclaw again and pop that stupid blimp."

Swishy nodded. His eyes inflated and deflated like steadying breaths.

Trey felt the warmth of the spell cards activating within his pocket, important lessons drawn forth by his scarecrow friend, but he concentrated on restraining the magic. The straw boy was tough on his own. He'll learn. He's got this.

The shops were open—an hour early at that. The city celebrated all night. When the sun greeted them they decided to proceed with their workdays in a happy, motivated sleeplessness. The soft shine of dawn leaned against the windows, revealing the darting shadows of the ambitious citizenry. Occasionally, someone would part their blinds and gaze at their beloved Swish-god.

As the pair progressed through town, Trey told Swishy of Ruby's gardening quest—but nothing more, nothing about hearts and harvest, only plants. He instructed Swishy to touch things, gently. Don't overdo it.

Swishy approached the various plant life by the shops and the vendors emerged. Thank you, Swishy! We love you, Swishy! Come back anytime! And the scarecrow liked it. Each time he ghosted the plants with his un-mittened fingertips, the vegetation shimmered. The orange-wheat and yellow-stalk hues deepened. The gold-straw glowed. Swishy's soul, his heart, acted as a ghostly seasoning, enlivening the plants.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

While the eco-tour occurred, everyone's eyes were drawn toward Swishy. The townsfolk were hypnotized by the plant magic. Their bodies carried out their menial tasks automatically. They restocked shelves and exchanged money and engaged in thank-you-come-again chatter. Dining patrons of the city stared outside of the restaurant at windows at Swishy, perfectly coordinated in their blind fork-to-mouth aim. The citizens behaved like automatons, and we were able to give Swishy one-hundred-and-ten percent of their focus.

“Creepy…” Trey breathed.

“What’s creepy?” Swishy asked.

“It’s nothing. Hey, you missed the pot over there.”

“Thanks, Trey.” Swishy glided his hand over the flowers while Trey examined all the smiling eyes. Disturbed didn’t even begin to describe what the young man felt. The people stopped being people and he didn’t like it.

Swishy raised from the pot, the flower stem arising with him. The scarecrow gave him a satisfied nod and Trey ruffled his wheaty hairdo.

Whenever a weak stalk became cured of wilt or relieved of dryness, the people saw their own recoveries. Healing was valuable. Healing was capital. At every turn of a corner, every passing of a kiosk, the rumors slipped into Trey's ears. The straw must cure illness. The straw relieves pain. The straw gives energy. Straw is food. Straw is life. People everywhere sucked the straw-chews—and even ate them by the handful. One person wrapped the straw over their chewing gum. Another rolled crushed wheat into a cigarette and smoked it. No matter the means or method, everyone claimed that they felt better. And all because of Swishy. His spirit. His sacrifice.

Trey was unsettled, deeply so, but while Straw City had lost its mind he remained on its payroll. Gotta pay the bills. Gotta protect the Swishy.

He caught the strangeness of his thought: protect the Swishy. The scarecrow was just a golem, a bird, a walking and head-tilting spell. Wouldn't Trey's life be easier if he grew Swishy's heart and harvested him as designed? It would—obviously. But was it obvious? In his heart of hearts, could he farm this boy-like…boy? It was complicated. Something about the ordeal sickened him.

Trey absently reached for the gold cross tucked into his shirt, a gesture reminding him of Swishy's chest cavity exploration. The Jesus had chilled around his neck, a silent witness to the trials and tribulations of the past 24 hours. His mom had given him that cross long ago, a reminder of how far the Clayborne people had come—from war and subjugation during Earthen times to their Cearth-era glory and riches. Hearts were divine things. Human hearts. Bird hearts. A heart was a heart was a heart—that's the feeling he had inside.

Trey swallowed hard, caught between a rock and a hard place, the right thing and the Ruby thing. During this deliberation, he caught sight of a rooftop shadowclaw. Then another. He circled slowly and identified several black birds glaring at him, judging his every move. The snitchtalons were upon him, sensitive to his reservations.

“I hate ya’ll,” Trey said. “Glorified pigeons.”

A punch on the shoulder—Swishy. “Hey, that’s mean.”

“Sure was,” Trey snickered.

The snitchtalons glowered at Trey and clicked their beaks together.

By evening time, the town settled. They'd calmly serviced the vegetation in the populated portions of the city, mostly around Fountain Plaza, both Trey and Swishy making the unspoken decision to skirt The Curseworks. They were close, too, having walked right past its entrance, its ominous signage of cracked and wrinkled oak. Trey held his breath. Step-step, step-step. And then it was over, the dark plaza to their backs. But they scurried on, unable to shake the feeling that the blackness was chasing them.

Swoosh!

Not quite a wind, but wind-like enough: swift, sharp, cold. A shadowclaw—no, a snitchtalon, definitely a snitchtalon—zooming through its territory, stealing glances at the uncertain movements of Swishy.

"They know I'm scared, huh?" Swishy said.

"Even if they don't, that's what they're gonna tell Ruby."

"The snitches don't deserve wings."

"Snitchtalons are undeserving. Always remember that."

And then they headed back to Fountain Plaza, eager for the refuge of Trey's two-story home. The sun was mostly gone, eclipsed by layers of cloud. Bars of color streaked across the sky, purple and indigo, royal blue and cerulean, along with the thinnest strip of sky blue merging into slate. The cold gently upped its prominence, too, a layer of frost settling atop every surface like a shiny second skin. Straw City was beautiful. Straw City was normal. A V-formation of shadowclaws soared above them, slow, relaxed, each bird content by their natural element of night.

"Trey?" The scarecrow tugged at his coat end.

"Yes, Swishy?"

Swishy pointed towards the birds. "Those ones are real."

"Love to see it."

Both of them paused, admiring the bird-souls piloting their proper bird bodies. Feathers dropped down upon them. Swishy, without missing a beat, caught every single one.

image [https://imgur.com/QWxsMmE.jpg]

image [https://imgur.com/aKYyeun.jpg]

(…)

But then came the crazed worshippers, Swishy’s enthusiastic fandom. A group of several locals—sometimes as small as six or as large as twenty—dropped to Swishy's feet, blocking their path. For two weeks this had been going on, multiple times a day at that.

"Brush us, dear Swishy. We are not worthy!"

"Move it!" Trey shouted. "Stop crowding the kid." He brandished a rolled-up newspaper, golden and organically textured—strawpyrus, it was called, an old invention recently fortified and improved by the Swish-heart.

"Please Swishy, give us your shavings!"

"I said MOVE—"

Swishy placed a hand on Trey's back, stopping him in mid-swing of the STRENGTH OF HEART IS STRENGTH OF HARVEST headline. Trey paused, having gotten in the habit of conserving his home-run swings, as Swishy stood over the worshippers and their disgracefully opened mouths.

Trey studied the boy, having previously used a flashcard on him the first time this happened.

The scarecrow gently motioned to avoid giving off a sudden, straw-shedding movement to the annoying humans. He removed a mitten and gently finger-tipped the ground—crack!—a modest bundle of straw-chew shot through the touched area.

"Thank you, Gracious One!" They scrambled for the wheat, rolling about the dirt, panting.

"It's nothing," he swished.

Trey smirked. Swishy had taken to the FINESSE spell with ease. And then they strolled off, tranquility at first—before running when they got enough of a head start.

And the snitchtalons watched it all. When were they not?

They were everywhere at all times, glaring imperially from telephone poles and stall awnings. They were too good for the townsfolk. They were even too good for Swishy.

Now that they were made men, high-ranking officers in Ruby's hierarchy, they boldly accepted their diva arc. Gone were the days of The Stormcellar's hurricanes and starvation. Naturally, the snitchtalons lacked arms and thumbs. So they dressed one another, using their beaks to straighten the ascots and button the vests of other flock members. They cawed approvingly in admiration of their collective style before resuming their daily work. Clothed in dark, tailored silks, the winged sophisticates haughtily spied upon Trey and Swishy.

Trey wasn't used to working like this, being surveilled and suspected. But the stakes were mythic. Everyone had a little something or other to claim from the scarecrow, Ruby especially.

So naturally the news of the prostrating citizens, of Trey becoming a rolled-up newspaper martial artist, got back to Ruby. Trey got a text alert and eye-rolled.

Nice moves! If you want, fill the newspaper with a lead pipe. That'll show them!

Thanks, Ruby. I did it as much for me as I did for Swish.

Hahaha, I believe it! I'll send protection anyway!

No, no, you don't have to!

Oh, trust me, Trey. I want to! ;)

At Ruby’s command, the snitchtalons were ever-present. They circled, they perched, they stared, and they waited in spring-loaded tension for an unsuspecting worshipper to step—or prostrate—out of line. They only loosened up to readjust their ties and fitted vests. Add that to the staring locals, and the watchfulness was overwhelming.

Trey and Swishy set about their work as the hundreds and hundreds of eyes chased after the mystic scarecrow. The townsfolk’s worked and shopped and walked their dogs—and watched. The snitchtalons, though, simply watched with their whole being. Straw City’s combined obsessive surveillance closed upon them. The collected gazes cohered as brick walls. They couldn't escape the attention. The outside wasn't the outside any longer. The city in all its labyrinthian magnificence became a dungeon.

And, as happened to be the daily occurrence, a local pumpkin vendor climbed over his stall and lunged toward Swishy. "MY LEIGE!" he cried. "BRISTLE MINE SOUL!"

Trey struck a batter's stance with today's newspaper headline—SWISHY'S GOLD-STRAW FAVES: FIVE BAKERIES ON OUR WATCHLIST—as Swishy hid behind his friend.

Swoosh! A barrage of snitchtalons dive-bombing, their several pairs of claws gripping the charging vendor. The man hovered in mid-air, crying for his straw messiah to save him ("I have prayed, now may I at last receive!"), before levitating higher, then soaring off, getting outright flown straight into the clouds.

"Wait!" Trey said and Swishy swished.

But their protests went unheeded, the dark wingbeats persisting onwards as the captured party screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed, their voice finally sucked out of them, vacuum-like, within the shadowed aura of The Curseworks.

Trey trembled, dropping his strawpyrus bat.

Swishy patted his shoulder. "Look, friend. Even idiots get to fly before I do."

Trey laughed—uncomfortably—before he outright guffawed once he decided to be honest with himself. And the onlookers laughed, too, but with none of the hesitation; they were immediately in hysterics at Swishy's joke. The logic was obvious and scary: if their god joked then laugh fully, laugh with your heart. Even as the captured man's wails tapered off, swallowed by the gentle winds, the laughs continued, intensifying even.

Swishy didn't seem bothered by it, though. The scarecrow closely studied Trey in hopes that he'd feel better. And Trey did feel a little better, at least well enough to text Ruby about the madness.

Ruby you can't do that! What is that?

It's like when you go to a dancing club. The big guys out front. The bumpers!

Bouncers?

Yes! See, you understand :)

Everyone around them receded into their days, tending their kiosks, their stalls, and their customers while casting sidelong and doting glances at Swishy. They were happy folks, unbothered by the man getting air-napped. So Trey grabbed Swishy by the hand and led him out of the neighborhood.

They finished their plant-tending. They did a little shopping at GRAIN BARREL GROCER, or rather, collecting their free Swishy-is-my-savior offerings pre-packaged, pre-bagged, and with handwritten thank-you notes attached.

On the way home, Trey carried groceries regularly while Swishy walked as a "T", the bag handles draped on his arms as if he were a coatrack. The sun was setting. The city's eyes were a little less visible, a little less sharp. The streets began to empty. The soul-weary pair had somewhat put the air-napping out of their minds.

An occasional Swishy we love you! Swish-straw cured my corona! shout came from afar—but only from afar.

The citizens had this minimal amount of sense at least.