Have you ever seen straw brains lay at a pale boy’s bare feet?
His toes digging deeper into the soil that raised him?
Mimicking some mindless game he saw the grown men play on T.V?
The primer’s ignition makes a noise, but there is no sound.
It’s less disturbing to him then the tin’s clinking in the trees.
The decoy stuffed into an old red flannel, muddy boots,
and a green army helmet never stood a chance.
To his father’s revolver, a bullet, and the Pale Boy’s tears.
The crow’s inching closer, familiar with the fearful faces.
They caw and rattle a question amongst each other:
‘How could a Pale Boy be the only child brave enough to play?’
But deep down the Pale Boy knew he wasn’t so brave.
When Scarecrow lost the game, he still got to play.
If the Pale Boy lost then there wouldn’t be a game at all.
Have you ever seen a Pale Boy’s brains lay at some Scarecrow’s muddyboots?
River Rivers, is a werid-fiction writer from Southern Oregon, US. He’s been published in a number of literary presses and anthologies since he began writing. He is Modoc and Klamath Native American Indian. Spends his days working on a legal cannabis farm and dispensary.