Name:
Strašák
{Czech for 'scarecrow'}
Gender:
Female
What scares her?:
Formidophobia -- the fear of scarecrows! Strasak is terrified of the things, has been almost her entire life. It's the shapelessness that gets her, the way they flop about with those cloth heads tattered and torn to play at having a face, arms bent at unnatural angles ending in those empty glove 'hands'; how they stand in empty fields being battered by the wind, rain and all manner of beasts, straw and stuffing oozing out of every rip until they finally fall apart. They are firmly entrenched in the uncanny valley, despite her many attempts to acclimate to them-- nothing's worked. Still, she takes aspects of them in hopes of finding something to appreciate in them, but only time will tell...
100 Words:
They watch, wind flowing through empty sack eyes and empty glove hands flopping like dead fish. They sit over bales of hay, slumped-- some asleep, most look to be in the Long Sleep.
I try to not hate them. I admit, we even share... some aspects. Our tattered clothes, our association with autumn, both found with straw or other crops... I even made one once, a desperate bid to save my meager plantings.
But they still disgust me. Make me shiver and whine, but I force myself to stay. Perhaps... someday I might care for them. But for now, I hide.
Strašák
{Czech for 'scarecrow'}
Gender:
Female
What scares her?:
Formidophobia -- the fear of scarecrows! Strasak is terrified of the things, has been almost her entire life. It's the shapelessness that gets her, the way they flop about with those cloth heads tattered and torn to play at having a face, arms bent at unnatural angles ending in those empty glove 'hands'; how they stand in empty fields being battered by the wind, rain and all manner of beasts, straw and stuffing oozing out of every rip until they finally fall apart. They are firmly entrenched in the uncanny valley, despite her many attempts to acclimate to them-- nothing's worked. Still, she takes aspects of them in hopes of finding something to appreciate in them, but only time will tell...
100 Words:
They watch, wind flowing through empty sack eyes and empty glove hands flopping like dead fish. They sit over bales of hay, slumped-- some asleep, most look to be in the Long Sleep.
I try to not hate them. I admit, we even share... some aspects. Our tattered clothes, our association with autumn, both found with straw or other crops... I even made one once, a desperate bid to save my meager plantings.
But they still disgust me. Make me shiver and whine, but I force myself to stay. Perhaps... someday I might care for them. But for now, I hide.