Once again, I walked through stalks of high corn on a cool autumn night. The Scarecrow was just as I found him the evening before. His plastic eyes were still faraway, his body was still made of disheveled straw, some having fallen upon what I thought holy soil.
With reverence I lay a Beatle's LP on the cold ground and placed a red apple atop its cover. I lit slight sticks of incense and smelled a sweet smoke. I hummed humbly, chanted in a tasteful timbre, than I asked quietly:
"Scarecrow, what is the word?"
He shook his head side to side in a slow foreboding rhythm and replied:
I left behind what I had brought in worship: the Beatle Album, the beautiful red apple, the sticks of burning incense. As my feet rustled through brown husks, my heart was filled with fear: A Hairy forearm. A Rear-Naked-Choke. A ghastly, unholy death on an autumnal plain.
I Wish I'd Written This
6 hours ago