Of Mice and Men and Zombies
It is a cold Sunday morning in early November. It has been raining almost non-stop for the past two days, though it has finally subsided into a drizzle. A cold dampness clings to the air, and mist and fog linger noticeably. The farm smells strongly of wet grass and soil, and aside from the usual murmur of activity, the only noise that can be heard are the soft winds blowing in from the ocean, and the creaking wood of the forest on the farmstead's edge. Though most of the dirt has returned to its dry state, there are large banks of mud along the dirt paths in the farm, and once-fiery orange piles of leaves have been compressed into fetid brown clumps that collect in bale-sized clusters. Most of the trees are now grey and bare, and the silence of the forest is only ever broken by a twig or branch falling onto the forest floor.
With Sunday being the worker's one day off a week, most of the farmhands are escaping the chill inside of the barns, while the farmhouse workers are nestled comfortably in their attic bunkroom. A few of the men have assembled outside of the farmhouse for a baseball game, which has gathered the attention of a small audience -- Mainly, those too old to play, a few of the farmhouse workers taking in some fresh air, and those who wish to wager some of their stored-away goods in bets over the game.
Scarecrow
Standing atop a small mound of dirt, Scarecrow raised one leg like a professional pitcher, as if he meant to strike out Babe Ruth. His caricature of a pitcher's stance drew a few laughs from the small audience, and he flashed a toothy grin. "It's the bottom of the fifth inning, and up to bat is Bill Pooley, the Pink Pennsylvanian. He's lookin' nervous ladies and gentlemen, and I'm willing to bet it's because he knows he's about to strike out." Scarecrow loudly spoke in the exaggerated, fast-talking nasally voice of a baseball commentator. He heard a few laughs, though none of them came from Bill who remained motionless, holding his bat like he meant to club Scarecrow to death with it.
Scarecrow pushed his straw hat further down on his head, tightening the brim around his forehead, pretending to shield himself from the nonexistent glare of the off-white sky above them. With a small grunt of exertion, he flung the ball towards Bill with a surprising amount of speed, sending the ball into the catcher's mitt with a satisfying thud.
"Stee-rike one!" Scarecrow announced, feeding off of Bill's frustration. Scarecrow raised his leg again, though rather than throw the ball, he pretended to throw it, cupping it in his hands the same way one would fool a dog into fetching a stick that hadn't been thrown. Bill swung heartily at the false pitch, inciting more laughter from the crowd. Scarecrow chuckled to himself as Bill gritted his teeth, turning more red than pink.
Scarecrow pitched the ball again, and Bill missed once more. "Strike two!" the lithe man shouted. In truth, Scarecrow was a very poor pitcher, lacking the proper depth perception to throw anything more complex than a quick underhand pitch, though Bill's frustration made up for Scarecrow's lack of skill. As Scarecrow raised his leg once more, a small murder of crows erupted from the forest, flying in a cluster away from the bare, skeletal trees. It was of little concern to the men, however. Birds were seldom more of a spectacle than sports.
Scarecrow pitched the ball again, sending it flying towards Pooley. His bat connected, and even from Scarecrow's pitcher's mound, the crack of the wood against the ball rang out like a gunshot. The ball soared through the air high and far enough that Bill knew he had no reason to run for the bases, as it reached the apex of its arc near the edge of the forest. Though nobody could see where it had landed, Bill's home-run ball had landed somewhere just beyond the farm's stone perimeter.
Bill laughed to himself as he returned to his team, tossing the bat at Scarecrow's feet triumphantly.
"Somebody go fetch that ball before it starts raining again."
