not in kansas anymore

they say she murdered men made of straw.

her words picked slowly at the buttons of his ragged shirt and her hands tore at his packing, in search.
the workers stopped their machines and gathered round. whispers and laughs of shameless interest polluted the currents that wind through the maze of golden fields.

a tarnish to be picked, processed, and forgotten.

he wept upon his post, crying out in silence for help from his fellow men; all too intoxicated with their midday treat. crows circled above the public execution, waiting for the moment their long time enemy was dead.
the workers hollered and whooped as the crazed lady thrashed at the broken man, encouraging her to set fire to his post.

decaying flesh lay scattered about as the search for his soul continued. to kill the will of the man made of straw was the distraught girl's wish. he deserves it, she said to herself.
over and over.

he deserves it
seasons come
crops are grown
money to be made, work to be played, and food to be ate.
many lover's toil and innocence may be saved today.

a matchbook escaped her pocket.
the breeze took care of the rest.