EVERYONE FLEW—everyone but Swishy.

Not a day went by without snitchtalons yoinking one out-of-line worshipper or another. The harder you prayed, the harder you loved Swishy, the sooner you met the skies. Each captive soared and soared and soared and soared, begging for Swishy's blessing, shrieking a whole lot of I'm weightless(!), I'm nothing(!), I'm unworthy(!) sorrows, a desperation that reminded Swishy of the graceless dark-dwellers.

Lame. Swishy vexingly swirled his koi-fish blues. Swishy was jealous. This was true. He unlocked the skies to everyone but himself.

He wasn't stupid, though: kidnappings were bad news, the worst news, but he still wanted to catch wind by any means. Snitchtalon escort was potentially ideal. He'd grip and trap them. He'd strip them of wings. He'd reclaim his original body, piece by downy piece.

Folks were getting snatched up (How great, how lucky...), and Swishy wanted to know how he could be next.

"Jeez," Trey said, somewhat used to the spectacle. "I wonder what Ruby does to them."

"I don't know but I just want to fly."

"That flailing and thrashing isn't really flight."

"I just want to be up there."

"Not like that, though."

"No Trey. Exactly like that."

The boys went on about their business as the imperiled cries of the flightless flier reduced to an ambient drone. Naturally, they got used to it—if you'd seen one air-napping, you'd seen them all.

And while passage to the skies revolved around Swishy, so too did life on the ground. Swishy had become the fabric of Straw City life.

The citizens fawned over him. They breathlessly gasped at him. And some even fainted. But what Swishy mostly noted was the change to their common sayings. Folks switched over from standard how-are-you's and how-goes-it and are-you-well into the ever-present Everybody eats. A casual refrain, a common refrain, rooted in sugar-wraith desires for food. Though what first started as a calm greeting then revealed itself as hunger trauma, as Stormcellar starvation wrathfully re-emerging when kids had unfinished plates.

Everybody eats! So eat! Are you a wraith? Do you want to be a wraith? Do you want to starve? To become nothing! Then be nothing. Don't eat. Just die. I don't care anymore.

Swishy watched as Trey's mouth hung open. He grazed Trey's hand with an un-gloved finger, stealing a peek at his brother's soul. Whoa, was all it said.

Meanwhile, the town's STRAW IS THE CURE slogan graduated from its zeppelin signage. The phrase wound up on banners, too, paired with a Swishy silhouette logo. The images lived on store windowpanes and framed signs. Random alleyways were plastered with Swish posters. And even a food supply van here and there. Swishy had even picked up a folded brochure from off the ground—featuring his face, of course. The scarecrow tilted his gigantic head and Trey responded. "It's a travel brochure! You're the tourism poster boy now!"

Tourism? Posters? These all sounded to Swishy like jobs that should pay him pastries. But he moved on.

As the day progressed, the Straw-Is-The-Cure morning message inevitably transitioned to Ruby instructions: SPRUCE IT UP, DECORATE GOOD, MORE STRAW, and the like. Everyone swiftly decorated to please Ruby, to obey her law. Orange-wheat and yellow-stalk filled the sidewalk planters as symbols of health. Modest gold-straw bundles were hung next to everyone's doorbells—for luck. Feathered shadowclaw garlands were strung around the city, the darkness said to intensify altar blessings. Blackflower bouquets frequented the windowsills more than ever as a negativity ward—the more Straw City invited curses, the more cautious citizens became about warding their unforeseen side effects.

Swishy sighed his way through the city—he knew something was off. But what? He could never put his finger on it.

(…)

One month passed.

Swishy had entered the city, relinquished his heart, and birthed the reinvigorated Curseworks—but ever since him and Trey had settled into a flow. They established routines and hobbies and favorite hangouts. They went on daily plant patrol. They frequented Rye and Wisdom, Golden Dog, and Sweet Straw Café. And Swishy, having a ton to learn, was given schooling—a flashcard fast-track of it anyhow.

Each morning Trey made his Build-A-Boy, study time! announcement and Swishy came running. They sat at the kitchen table for twenty-minute sessions at maximum, starting with road signs, traffic lights, bathroom symbols, store hours. Trey taught Swishy how to read. Swishy was already host to the LANGUAGE card but Trey added HASTE, EFFICIENCY, and UNDERSTANDING to the mix. Swishy also learned arithmetic, at least enough to count change. Basic skills, basic functions, the seeds of self-sufficiency sown and watered.

Trey figured visual learning was best. He uncorked his piggybank—a scarecrow he'd gotten from THRIFTS AND TRINKETS down the street—and dumped the bills out on the table.

"Here," Trey slid a twenty-dollar bill toward Swishy. "What's this called?"

"A ching note."

"Good. How many ching is that?"

"Twenty." Twenty opulently clothed snitchtalons were flying across the note.

Trey slid Swishy another bill. "And this one?"

Swishy stared at the note into Ruby's lipsticked smile and perfectly colored hair—no exposed roots like when he'd met her. "That's one ching."

"Good, good, and together that makes..."

"Twenty-one, I know. That's easy. But Trey, I have a question."

"What's up?"

"Why is Ruby only one ching? Wouldn't she be worth more?"

"That’s a great observation! But you know how she is...she says she's number one."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's very like her,” Swishy said with thinly veiled judgment.

Trey nervously laughed while Swishy picked at the straw sticking from his sleeve.

Whenever the lessons got uncomfortable, Trey tossed Swishy his tablet, the Clayhearth gold-wiring powering the insides and producing grammar lessons. The lights and letters put Swishy in a happier place, a FLASHCARD-resembling one.

After tutoring finished, Swishy closed the grammar tutorials on Trey's tablet and fired up the Gamebox. ("Not you becoming a video game head," Trey sighed. To which the scarecrow jerked his head upwards, a powerful Swish-speak declaration of: "I also learned math—to count mana, hehe").

Swishy was a turn-based RPG fiend: Soul Syphon, Royal Reverie, and Altruistic Altar. Trey even helped with the character specs—the white mage in him couldn't resist.

Altruistic Altar was Swishy's favorite. In that game, the darkness was clean and free of peeves. Much like his real life, the un-dark was an awkward and difficult place to be. The sunlight featured bandits and monsters and natural disasters, which constantly beleaguered Swishy his RPG party. But when night fell, the monsters suddenly powered down and went to sleep.

The world disappeared—the buildings, the trees, the grass and rivers and rock faces—and a wholly new night realm emerged. Swishy appreciated the historical callback to the Earth to Cearth real lore.

During the dark parts of the game, Swishy piloted his crew around the arcades and tailors and inns, playing and shopping and resting. There were no tensions, no dangers. This was known as the Altar Hour, perfectly altruistic, perfectly giving, and never-ending until you pressed the sun-up button.

Swishy always ended the Altar Hour when it was Trey's turn to play.

Trey rolled his eyes but was more than happy to grind through the un-dark, an older brother beating bosses and the 16-bit perils for his precious little scarecrow. The young man grumbled about it, saying things like Play your own game or It'd serve you well to do the hard parts sooometimes, but then smiled as soon as the controller was in his hand. Once a boss was defeated, Trey handed Swishy the controls and declared, There you go, it's sunset. Altar Hour on delivery. Happy, my guy?

Swishy slanted his soul-blues and nodded emphatically, swishing out his warm-and-fuzzies, gleaming gold-straw bits drifting about the room, landing all over the edge of the bed.

(…)

During days when Swishy fell into a gaming hole, he performed his plant patrol at night. Fewer people, fewer eyes, and less worship. Fountain Plaza was peaceful and empty. The silvered moon shone upon Swishy and Trey like a stage light, dramatic and lovely. The peeves littered the many-shadowed night, screaming their screams, but Swishy smothered the noise with willpower, soul-power.

Swishy traversed the pathways near the closed shops before which he spotted a bundle of orange-wheat sprouts. The scarecrow cupped his hands around it, guarding it from the cursed midnight. He infused the plant with his inner magic: one pulse, then a second one. Floom!—the plants augmented into a red-orange flame of wheat.

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"Nice torch," Trey laughed while rubbing his fingers across the grainy stalk, admiring the growth.

Swishy went from planter to planter, grazing buds, summoning flame. The yellow-stalk came next—each modest bunch was transformed into sun-colored outgrowths of luminous wheat.

He saved the best for last—the gold-straw—which dangled from hanging pots, rested on windowsills, or wrapped around doorbells for good luck. Swishy tapped these with his finger and they glowed, their luminous threads adorning the night.

When the gold-straw gleamed, the curses shrank. The shadows were washed by the gold rays, the jet-black sorrows bleached and eradicated.

A placid darkness, an immaculate hush. No gazes, no worshippers, no air-nappings, no dark-dwellers. The world was muted, and Swishy reveled in its perfection.

Swishy's soul-blues brimmed from his optic carvings, pulsating in a pastel restfulness. The silence and emptiness satisfied him. The boy had hit his zone. He struck a "T" in the middle of the plaza—and Trey followed suit, arms outstretched, eyes shut, vibes aplenty.

(...)

One night, everything changed.

It was a late-nighter and the pair wandered the empty streets in glee.

After Swishy worked his route, he struck a T-pose. The boy felt as immovable as a sky-piercer and as majestic as the holy cross. And Trey, having fatigued from his own scarecrow pose, sat on the plaza's stone fountain and KO'd.

Swishy's plant work shined upon them. The stalks brilliantly bloomed, and the peeves were crushed underfoot by the combined moonbeam and gold-straw radiance.

The night was perfect. The night was Swishy's.

In these moments, Swishy discovered that he could even erase The Curseworks from his mind. The arcane plaza loomed in the distance, wielding a menacing purple aura. The winds howled and screamed and lamented and cried. Swishy tried not to pay attention, he tried to reduce the faraway woes to an atmospheric din. But his mind turned, it cranked, it refused to leave him be. The wind! Why so strong? So vicious! And why does it whine so much...He had suspicions, a whole host of sinking and disturbed feelings, but he was strong in his "T" and pushed those worries aside.

Overhead, the snitchtalons circled. Spite leaked from their slick, oily feathers. Swishy's peace disturbed them. They were less about their spying jobs and more about the disruption. And so they began to pelt Swishy with trash.

Paperclips, coins, discarded straw-chews, the like. But the metal trash bounced off without waking him. Of the litter storm, the straw-chews that touched the boy had re-grown into their original un-chewed forms.

The snitchtalons offered winged shrugs and nibbled the Swish-repaired chews. They ate them down and then pressed the nubs against his body—a refill, a fresh helping—before chowing down some more.

It looks like you're good for something, kid! Thanks for the meal! Re-grow that heart, though, Ruby is waiting! Remember, we're Ruby's favorites. And you're just a tool! You're boy-shaped mulch. That's not your heart—it's our heart. You'd better remember that.

And they flew away, knifing through the dark as one.

Swishy heard it all, felt it all, but maintained the wall. He just wanted to be a straw boy, absorbing the moonlight, and that's exactly what he was.

But he worried for his heart. The heartless pangs prickled his soul. He was a boy on the outside but thorns within. The emptiness didn't hurt before but now it did. He yearned more than ever for the missing pieces that he now actually missed. His inner chest throbbed, and its straw-weaves criss-crossed and tightened in an intricate framework.

A heart, a heart, a good one, a strong one. These were his wishes; these were his ambitions.

The oranges, the yellows, the divine golds (which so reminded him of Trey's precious Clayhearth) certainly came from fun. But the other feelings, the dark ones, moved the cardio-drama within. His fear and resentment and feeling of being used tore through him. He was shocked and enraged, scared and sad. As his chest pulse quickened, he feared—no, he knew—that this negativity grew his blackwheat.

Swishy reached inside him, fingering the cardiac kernel inside. Gold, please let it be gold! He hoped for a worthy heart, a healthy heart, a heart that he'd be proud to keep.

Sunrise was upon them, the deep night becoming violet and warm, awakening Trey. He sleepily glanced at Swishy's reaching into his chest and sleepily signaled to him to cut it out.

But Swishy kept tapping the kernel.

He toyed with it like an ache, an itch. Swishy found no pleasure in the surprise inside him. The suspense—he hated it. The wanting of a heart—he hated that too. He missed the days of being a soul and soul alone, predictably and comfortably heartless. Or perhaps he missed winged life as a wind-riding shadowclaw. Swishy was so confused, so lost. "What is this world?" the boy woefully swished. "Does it ever stop hurting?"

"I can't say it does," Trey said, suddenly waking, tuning into Swishy's need. "I only know that hurt signals that we need protection. But hurt sucks. Pain sucks. I hate it too."

"Can the hurt leave?"

"Sometimes yeah, sometimes never."

"I don't like that, Trey."

"You're magic, Swish. If anyone was equipped to solve their problems, it’d be you.

"I want to go back…" Swishy gazed off to the side, lost in thought.

"You mean you want to go back to where you came from?"

"Yes, Trey, yes. Head empty, soul floating."

"That sounds like a true vibe,” Trey nodded, exuding his support as best he could.

"I'm done with hearts. Having one. Losing one. Hearts are bad news."

"I mean...you went without heart before. It should be fine."

"But what about the heart I have now?"

"It's a good one. And it's yours."

"It's not mine. We both know that."

"It's yours. There's nothing I know more."

Swishy sensed the flashcards in Trey's pocket, brimming with power. There was a way out of this. He was all shrugs about what that way was, but the way existed. "Okay," Swishy nodded. "If you say it's mine, then it's mine."

(...)

Morning arrived, fully so.

The skies were clear. The radiant sun blasted away the dark-shine of the curse-laden shadows. Trey rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretch-yawned. The early risers filed into the plaza, opening up shop, searching for floral teas and gold-straw bagels. The birds left their perches. Today was a perfect day for flying, or rather, for snitchtalons to take yet another overzealous Swish-worshipper away.

But today, the boys experienced the opposite. One of the punished citizens was returned—the first one carried off by the snitchtalons. ("Hey look," Trey said, "Mr. Bristle-Mine-Soul is back"). He walked straight past the fountain Trey and Swishy stood by, whistling a tune, before arriving at his PUMPKIN MINE PUMPKIN gourd stall. He was in full curation mode, too, arranging the differently-sized pumpkins into a neat, structurally sound pyramid.

Swishy spotted the man and pointed, ruffling out a wry, "Trey, let's ask about his flight!"

"Yeah, we can ask him. He has some delicious-looking pumpkins for sale too."

"No Trey, we’re not buying pumpkins."

"What's wrong with pumpkin?" Trey patted Swishy's head, hungrily caressing the rind.

"No eating my head!"

"Fine, fine. Let's talk to Bristles."

They approached the stand, and the vendor recognized them right away. Bristles put his pumpkin down and waved. He rose to his full height, proud and noble, unlike the way he’d presented himself during his prostrating disgrace. His bald head gleamed in the sun like a bronze nugget—a dragon egg honestly, immense as he was. On the side of his head, tattoos of shadowclaw feathers adorned the cuff around his ear.

"Bristles! What's good?" Trey said.

"Bristles, thou sayest?"

"Swishy has named you. Be honored, alright."

"Yes sire!" He bowed to Swishy. "Dear Swish, my little liege, how art thou?" Bristles motioned to rub Swishy's head but thought better of it.

"Were you...taken away?" Trey continued. "Did Ruby have a talk with you?"

"Yes, a lovely conversation. I never spake to our leader before!"

"Seemed like a scary way to start a conversation."

"I am afraid of heights. But I will doth anything, anything, for Straw City."

Afraid of heights! Swishy indignantly whispered to Trey. The flying was wasted on him! Trey nudged Swishy to shut up.

"That's reassuring..." Trey said.

"Yes, Lady Ruby told me not to scare Swishy. That I must curb mine own aggression." He then turned to Swishy. "I deeply apologize, my liege."

"Ha, a lot of people are having that problem lately." Trey reached for a pumpkin but felt Swishy's eyes—he sensed the blue knives forming—and instead reached for some squash. "I'll take these."

Bristles smiled, bagging up the groceries, before announcing the final cost. "$5.67 please—CACAW!"

Swishy's eyes turned to exclamation points. Trey's pupils straight up dilated.

"Bristles…” Trey hesitated, afraid to confirm his unspoken theory. “Did you just caw?"

"Thanketh thee, goodbye." Bristles' face twitched and twitched as Trey stared into him. Swishy knew the truth. He could clearly see the familiar shape of panicked bird-soul within the human body. By this point, he could see the flashcard spells floating inside the person's head: OBEDIENCE, POLITENESS, SERVICE, COUNTING—and even individual cards for the numbers 1-10.

Swishy pulled Trey away by the shirt end, a cue readily taken.

As they walked off, Bristles—or rather the bird-soul inside—whimpered, a low frequency of soul caws, a yearning to return to its original body. The shadowclaw essence emitted spikes, angry shards of soul, which retracted back into its sorrowful, self-pitying form. The inner Bristles cycled his emotions as such, sorrow and rage, defeat and bloodthirstiness.

Swishy knew that trapped feeling well, and the despair of assuming a clumsy, unwieldy form. The condition of his fellow bird put him in a bad place.

Troubles, nothing but troubles, nothing but darkness intertwined with his soul during his next few mornings. He serviced flowers, he collected praise, and he humored Trey with his adorable gesturing. He'd learned fully how to role-play as Swishy, a fraud, a skilled pretender, piloting the body while trapped in his head. Autopilot had set upon him so viciously—but it was useful too. He didn't think about the hurt. He thought nothing, felt nothing. He'd missed this uncomplicated state.

They often passed Bristles’ stand. The man-bird waved. Trey waved back and upped his walking pace. Swishy closed himself off, in body and soul. He grabbed the end of Trey’s coat and followed along.

The scarecrow emptily strolled in an elaborate performance of himself.

A few days, a week, maybe two weeks passed—he couldn’t say. But when he finally climbed out of himself and returned to proper consciousness, Ruby had issued fresh zeppelin directives: MORE BLACK. BLACK IS FORTUNE. BLACK IS THE FUTURE.

The infiltration of blackwheat had begun.

The enigmatic dark straw spread throughout the city, spreading beyond The Curseworks. The blackwheat found itself in shops and daily cuisine. Swishy and Trey initially flinched at the blackwheat developments. ("They don't have any chill," Trey said. "Everything is so all-or-nothing around here"). But their discomfort didn't matter, not in the face of the city's Ruby-inspired momentum. Progress was the way—the only way—and so blackwheat was life, blackwheat was wholly inevitable.

The blackwheat was sold at every produce kiosk, every flower shop, every grocer. The locals sieved it outside of their front doors, beating it against walls, tossing it into the strong winds—which speared out the dark-sugar. The harvested sugars were next distilled into Dark-syrup™ , Shadow Molasses™, Midnight Jam™. These products were distributed across the city in labeled jars, crates, and sealed boxes. Everything was transported by the shadowclaws—true bird souls influenced by flashcards (FETCH, OBEDIENCE, LABOR).

“Oh God,” Trey said. “Don’t tell me they’re going to trade those cursed goods.”

“Wait, but we don’t even know what that is.” Swishy flinched from his own comment—because what it was had grown inside, and was growing inside. He mourned for the human condition and the Swish condition. Both things were equally troubling.

“Man, I hope that blackwheat doesn't end up in Clayhearth.”

“I’m sending good vibes to your home.”

“Thanks, Swish.”

All the while the snitchtalons glared as midnight jams were spread across bread and spooned into flour mixes and whipped into cake frosting and licked straight from the spoon by the children of the street vendors. They accumulated snitch notes to report to the inquisitive, info-mongering Ruby. When one flock departed to deliver blackwheat information, another flock assumed their perches. They flawlessly transitioned, functioning as one organism. They'd become a single perfect eye.

Swishy was guarded, vigilant, and hyper-tense. His soul compressed with each passing moment in the curse-drowned settlement.

But what could Swishy and Trey do? Straw City existed—and the curses were simply its breath.

They went about their plant work, their errands, their videogaming, their tutoring sessions—but it wasn't the same. The peeves were closing in. Ruby was closing in.

A ping from Trey's phone. A Ruby text. He read it: "Come to The Curseworks tomorrow. The preparations are done! Winky face..."

"Not the winky face," Swishy lamented.

"Yes, the winky face."

"This is my heart, Trey."

"I know."

"But Ruby doesn't. Look."

Swishy pointed to the sky, leading Trey's gaze. The ever-present zeppelin was back, a new cycle, a new message: DARK HARVEST IS UPON US. ONE COMMUNITY, ONE LOVE, ONE STRAW.

The snitchtalons—some seen, some unseen—CACAW'd, a cacophonous laughter, a jeering, a mocking of the distressed scarecrow.

There were a couple of human-voiced CACAW's, too, sad ones, flightless ones.