Feb 02 2009
Straw Man 21
There was no more flapping of leaves or creaking of thin green stocks or thumping of overripe cobs on the firmly packed soil of the field. No more music. No more subtle din that gave the scarecrow a sense of enveloping comfort, like a blanket made weaved of air and corn silk. There was just the moan of charging wind and a light haze of falling ash coming out of the bulbous black cloud that still loomed over head. It was like the void of his unconscious being given form in reality. Granted, it was slightly more colorful and there was a sense of time and place, but Connor still felt that same emptiness pulling him apart in all directions. Only now, he had no far green fields to retreat to. Not anymore.
