Field General
From the middle of my maize carrion battlefield, locked in a crucified pose, I can only hope the denim sheen of my armor is enough to frighten you. That the straw cowl stretched over my burlap-course skin keeps your peckish beaks at bay. Though the elements have bleached and battered my tightly woven shell, I hold my ground. Though my wits have become frayed at the edges and weight drains from me on every breeze, I am vigilant. Your very presence is defiance, which I can’t stand, though stand is all I can do.
An ink-black sky is splayed open by the crescent moon — a scythe cutting through the dark veil. Your numbers have dwindled, and you’ve become bolder and more defiant. No longer satisfied picking at the edges of my domain. No longer governed by the rules of engagement older than the very field we vie for. You perch waiting. Watching Skoll chase the sun. Watching Hati lust after the moon. Sure that time is on your side. Sure that once those old wolves have won their chase, you’ll be protected by darkness.
But I know something you don’t. It was more than fate or luck that I came to preside over this place. To be propped up, statuesque, a taunt as much as a warning. Your misfortune, though you can’t see it, was a cleverly planned strategy of eradication fed by your very lust for the rows and remains splayed out beneath me in every direction.
No ancient gods can lead you to victory in this arena. You’ve been warned. You’ve been dutifully scared. Your defiance of that old code will be your end, for my master keeps his own hours, too. For the gods have given him their light so that he may see in the ever-dark. They’ve given him their wits so he may outsmart even the wiliest predator — which you are not. They’ve given him the thunder which has spilled the innards of so many before you. And even as you sit unblinking, you will never see it coming.
BOOM
“God damn crows.” The farmer ejects the shotgun shell, catching it with his right hand, and slips it into a pocket greased with years of grime. “Worthless scarecrow.”
The overalled god, my master, has smitten you. Others will come. Some will heed my threats. They will see my rigid posture and unwavering duty, and they will move along to the next field. But for those winged beasts who perch hungrily, only a violent death awaits.
