Death Note Fan Fiction ❯ The Angel and the Scarecrow ❯ The Scarecrow ( Chapter 2 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: selena281 
Anime/Manga: Death Note Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Adventure / Drama / Fantasy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.28.2012 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 324 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Death Note Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Adventure / Drama / Fantasy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.28.2012 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 324 | Status: Work In Progress
Chibi Theatre:
The Angel and the Scarecrow
Part 2: The Scarecrow
_________________________________________________________
Th e scarecrow was a rough-looking fellow, eyes like blackened flint and dark hair like a sea-tossed storm. He held his arms out to the sky every noon, night, and morn.
He did his job well, and gladly, out in the fields, daily. But he was not happy. No folk came to see him, to speak any tidings. In fact, they were taken to do the opposite.
For many years, he told himself, “Work harder and they will come see you. Do a better job so they will congratulate you.”
He kept sleepless eyes on the fields as seasons passed, and yet the people also passed, heads down and faces turned aside.
His heart would be heavy, if he had one.
But he was naught but a scarecrow, filled with straw, owner of a hat which he’d lost long ago.
Maybe one day I’ll leave this field, he thought to himself.
The crows and small animals he was supposed to fend off appeared to him more sociable than those that wanted them gone. Yes, he confided to Crow #2 (his name for it), as it settled peaceably upon his shoulder. I think I will do just that.
The scarecrow looked up at the deep azure blue sky and thought, I’ll just wait for a sign.
---
Crow #3, an old girl with one white crested wing hopped upon the ground, spying something interesting.
Caw! she shrieked, enjoying the sound of her own voice. Caw! she proclaimed again, sharing with the world her song.
She hopped again, with dark grey feet that seemed to have little springs, and looked curiously at the dirt between the weeds. She snapped up a bug, that looked too tasty to give up, before beaking the strange thing that lay beside. It was not a stick, though it twirled in her beak like one, for it had no leaves - though it caught the breeze. It was the color of clouds before rain, though it shimmered finely, like those things she loved to collect.
She hopped about with it in her mouth, finding it to be a touch unwieldy. This was no pretty bauble that she could bring to her nest.
Her keen eyes swept the area, and touched the sky.
Today was a fine day. Perhaps she would go visit her favorite scarecrow.
---
The scarecrow kept endless watch over the fields, a little glumly these days. The stick at his back, holding him upright, seemed more of a prison than a home to him now. The small block of wood under his straw-filled feet was the same.
A shame, a shame.
He wanted to hang his head, but he did not. For he had pride in his work, and to have none would see him rot.
---
Crow #2 had such trouble with the-thing-that-was-not-a-stick, that she implored Crow #4 to help her. Neither of them knew their silently ascribed (by the scarecrow) names, but knew each other in the language of crow, which is not to be deciphered by those without flight. But if one were to try, they might be called Mary and Ralph. Crow #4 was a young male with a pretty blue sheen to his pristine feathers, which the scarecrow was secretly quite fond of.
Ca-Caw! Ca-Caw! Ralph, Crow #4, bleated steadily, somehow, around the thing-that-was-not-a-stick as they carried it through the air.
Old Mary, Crow #2, found this vexing, to be honest, and wished that he had more of a sense of decorum about things. He was such a motor mouth, endlessly filling the sky with his chatter. When he got older, perhaps, he would learn that beauty and brawn were not everything. For now, she tolerated him for his help and congratulated herself for not feeling overly testy about his raucous voice.
Ca-Caw! Ca-Caw!
Ca-Caw!
---
The scarecrow looked to the west, thinking he heard Crow #4’s somewhat astringent voice ringing out in the cold October air. He wasn’t sure when he’d started being able to tell them all apart, it had just sort of come naturally.
He always liked to see the young, blue-black crow, as he was very beautiful as crows go. However, he wasn’t all that sad to see him leave again; he was so very loud.
To the scarecrow’s surprise, there was another crow flying with him. Right next to him, in fact. He thought he saw a flash of white as the wings flapped. If so, that would be Crow #2. She seemed older, was quiet, and rather refined as birds go.
They flapped up to him, nearly flying straight into his face before back-beating the air to sort of hover in place. He did not raise his arms to protect himself, so he was glad they’d avoided a crash.
After what seemed like a heated debate between the two, Crow #2 snatched her prize from Crow #4’s shiny, ebony beak and flapped awkwardly to alight upon his head. She walked to the front of his shaggy hair, where equally shaggy bangs half obscured his dark eyes, and leaned over the edge, dangling her parcel in front of his face for his perusal.
It’s....
It was a feather, bathwater grey. Long and slender, angular in the most intriguing of ways, there were tiny rainbows in the pinpricks of light it reflected and a shimmer that was other-worldly.
It’s..... beautiful.
Why, it was even more lovely than Crow #4, and that was saying something.
It was the single most contradictingly beautiful thing he had ever seen. Plain, almost ugly at first glance, but then....
Crow #2 regarded him with her round black eyes. She could not tell if the scarecrow was pleased or not with her gift. She decided to assume he was beyond moved - though, in truth, he never did move much. Quite impressed with her own accomplishment, she took the thing-that-was-not-a-stick and tucked it into his coat pocket then leapt into the sky in a flurry of wings.
---
That night, as the moonlight caught upon the feather, making it glow with a cool pure blue, something happened.
“My sign?” Scarecrow wondered aloud.
---
TBC
Th e scarecrow was a rough-looking fellow, eyes like blackened flint and dark hair like a sea-tossed storm. He held his arms out to the sky every noon, night, and morn.
He did his job well, and gladly, out in the fields, daily. But he was not happy. No folk came to see him, to speak any tidings. In fact, they were taken to do the opposite.
For many years, he told himself, “Work harder and they will come see you. Do a better job so they will congratulate you.”
He kept sleepless eyes on the fields as seasons passed, and yet the people also passed, heads down and faces turned aside.
His heart would be heavy, if he had one.
But he was naught but a scarecrow, filled with straw, owner of a hat which he’d lost long ago.
Maybe one day I’ll leave this field, he thought to himself.
The crows and small animals he was supposed to fend off appeared to him more sociable than those that wanted them gone. Yes, he confided to Crow #2 (his name for it), as it settled peaceably upon his shoulder. I think I will do just that.
The scarecrow looked up at the deep azure blue sky and thought, I’ll just wait for a sign.
---
Crow #3, an old girl with one white crested wing hopped upon the ground, spying something interesting.
Caw! she shrieked, enjoying the sound of her own voice. Caw! she proclaimed again, sharing with the world her song.
She hopped again, with dark grey feet that seemed to have little springs, and looked curiously at the dirt between the weeds. She snapped up a bug, that looked too tasty to give up, before beaking the strange thing that lay beside. It was not a stick, though it twirled in her beak like one, for it had no leaves - though it caught the breeze. It was the color of clouds before rain, though it shimmered finely, like those things she loved to collect.
She hopped about with it in her mouth, finding it to be a touch unwieldy. This was no pretty bauble that she could bring to her nest.
Her keen eyes swept the area, and touched the sky.
Today was a fine day. Perhaps she would go visit her favorite scarecrow.
---
The scarecrow kept endless watch over the fields, a little glumly these days. The stick at his back, holding him upright, seemed more of a prison than a home to him now. The small block of wood under his straw-filled feet was the same.
A shame, a shame.
He wanted to hang his head, but he did not. For he had pride in his work, and to have none would see him rot.
---
Crow #2 had such trouble with the-thing-that-was-not-a-stick, that she implored Crow #4 to help her. Neither of them knew their silently ascribed (by the scarecrow) names, but knew each other in the language of crow, which is not to be deciphered by those without flight. But if one were to try, they might be called Mary and Ralph. Crow #4 was a young male with a pretty blue sheen to his pristine feathers, which the scarecrow was secretly quite fond of.
Ca-Caw! Ca-Caw! Ralph, Crow #4, bleated steadily, somehow, around the thing-that-was-not-a-stick as they carried it through the air.
Old Mary, Crow #2, found this vexing, to be honest, and wished that he had more of a sense of decorum about things. He was such a motor mouth, endlessly filling the sky with his chatter. When he got older, perhaps, he would learn that beauty and brawn were not everything. For now, she tolerated him for his help and congratulated herself for not feeling overly testy about his raucous voice.
Ca-Caw! Ca-Caw!
Ca-Caw!
---
The scarecrow looked to the west, thinking he heard Crow #4’s somewhat astringent voice ringing out in the cold October air. He wasn’t sure when he’d started being able to tell them all apart, it had just sort of come naturally.
He always liked to see the young, blue-black crow, as he was very beautiful as crows go. However, he wasn’t all that sad to see him leave again; he was so very loud.
To the scarecrow’s surprise, there was another crow flying with him. Right next to him, in fact. He thought he saw a flash of white as the wings flapped. If so, that would be Crow #2. She seemed older, was quiet, and rather refined as birds go.
They flapped up to him, nearly flying straight into his face before back-beating the air to sort of hover in place. He did not raise his arms to protect himself, so he was glad they’d avoided a crash.
After what seemed like a heated debate between the two, Crow #2 snatched her prize from Crow #4’s shiny, ebony beak and flapped awkwardly to alight upon his head. She walked to the front of his shaggy hair, where equally shaggy bangs half obscured his dark eyes, and leaned over the edge, dangling her parcel in front of his face for his perusal.
It’s....
It was a feather, bathwater grey. Long and slender, angular in the most intriguing of ways, there were tiny rainbows in the pinpricks of light it reflected and a shimmer that was other-worldly.
It’s..... beautiful.
Why, it was even more lovely than Crow #4, and that was saying something.
It was the single most contradictingly beautiful thing he had ever seen. Plain, almost ugly at first glance, but then....
Crow #2 regarded him with her round black eyes. She could not tell if the scarecrow was pleased or not with her gift. She decided to assume he was beyond moved - though, in truth, he never did move much. Quite impressed with her own accomplishment, she took the thing-that-was-not-a-stick and tucked it into his coat pocket then leapt into the sky in a flurry of wings.
---
That night, as the moonlight caught upon the feather, making it glow with a cool pure blue, something happened.
“My sign?” Scarecrow wondered aloud.
---
TBC