Every day the farmer tilled. The soil shifted beneath their hoe. The dirt stacked—compounding itself into a long line. The farmer would rub their face and look at the sun. A small smile on their lips as the brown skin of the plants would stick up from the ground.
The Farmer took pride in his work. This ground. This Land. This community. It all lasted under his efforts. He kept the peace. The others in town could not see it. They never saw it. He tried to tell them that it would not last. The goodness in the town.
When he stopped tilling the land. Stopped harvesting the earth. That's when bad things happened. That's when the streets were filled with gunfire. He was a hero. A man of god.
A man who worshipped the almighty as he moved to place the roots into the ground. Soon enough the seeds within the soil will no longer stick out. No, they would go down as the as rot got to them. Harvesting their energy. Keeping the soil good. Feeding the rest of the land.
The town would love him for it. He wipes the sweat from his brow staring at his scarecrow the protector of his harvest. The thing that alerted him whenever someone snooped around. The red glow of its eyes glaring eerily off into the distance.
"You'll keep the harvest safe won't you."
The scarecrow is silent. He did not expect it to speak. But, he was done with work so he leaves knowing the land was watched over.
The brown roots try to grab at him as he departs. He sighs kicking them a little bit. The ground rumbles.
"Sorry. Sorry."
He is reminded that the harvest was not his to do with what he will. He had fed the rot. It will be time soon to take it out. For them to come.