A Blithering Literates Life

With a light thump, the scarecrow crumpled on the ash dusted summit of his hill home.  The comical impact with which he hit the ground seemed to have knocked all the drama from the situation.  He wasn’t angry anymore.  There wasn’t any billowing firestorm of emotion seething in the straw that was so effectively contained within him by his plaid shirt and overalls.  It might have dropped out of the two giant holes in his wrists, he thought to himself as he attempted to gather himself up.  After a couple false starts, he managed to raise his face out of the soot but his arms gave way at the wrists, again, and, in a puff of ash and loose straw, Connor’s face plopped right back into the fire charred dirt.