The Crows

The dead grasslands of Dethecia rolled in golden waves and crashed against the dark horizon. Here, life had become all but a long lost memory.

Jeremiah flew wearily and with his crow’s eyes looked over the landscape, which had turned monotonous miles and miles ago. The plains were endless, and he had flown over them for half a day already, had flown under the storm clouds that seemed to go on as infinitely as the dead grass, landing to rest his wings only when a morsel of movement seduced him downward, only to discover that he had mistaken the breeze for prey, or perhaps it had been his imagination all along. Exhaustion began to eat away at him, but his hunger kept him moving.

Upon the hard-traveled bark of the darkoak, a caterpillar legged its way toward no particular direction"each seemed as good as any"with many legs it legged, feeling wearily the soreness of long foot after long foot swarming every one of them. As a bloke beetle made its way on the branch of the darkoak, out of many jutting branches the skittering insect chose but one, letting the will of its instinct manifest destiny and govern its fate. Reacting with uncontested decision, never the slightest notion of preconception accompanying, it caught a faint signal that tweaked the antennae springing vigilant from its head. The signal had been faint, hardly significant enough to even consider expending the energy needed to follow it, and then disappeared with hardly a trace, just as it had come. But the bug hung from strings, puppeteer by its indomitable will to be, to sustain"the arduous span of time from the last signal to this had been insufferably long, oceanic; an ocean in which the pitiful thing’s strength to tread had fatigued to the point that all left, it seemed, was to drown"Each antennae jerked about the atmosphere. Nothing.  The hope, if ever there were such a thing, may have been a trick of desperation, merely a hallucination all along. The beetle continued along the way chosen for it, chasing the phantom of hope to its end, for there had been none in its wake, nor might there be any along another path, and if there were, the beetle did not possess the strength to elect another branch. The other branches were inconsequential.

The world had collapsed. The horizons closed. Existence began and ended"dead"at the cusp of the spherical network of its perception, and within it: the coarse ground of the darkoak and the awaiting destiny"perhaps reward, perhaps not; perhaps consequence.

The Hideous Man’s face was shaped like a crescent moon, and the likeness of their shapes was equal to their paleness. Like the moon, this man’s unsightly visage only ever saw darkness. His jaw jutted from it for miles and hung below his mouth as vastly, randomly, and sharply as a stalactite clinging to the ceiling of a cave. His eye sockets were two sinkholes in which his sunken eyes were shrouded in darkness. His hair was a crow’s-nest of long jet-black, greasy strands that seemed to sliver like soot covered worms when his head moved. Even the rags he wore were blackened by ages of filth and ash. Every aspect of his form, save his skin, was kin to blackness: his soul, his heart, his thoughts, his past, his present, his towering prison, the iron bell in the loft, and then the crows"his only friends in the whole world; all of them black. His existence was hardly an existence.  Revenge is what kept him alive.

There was one item, however, which belonged to him that hadn’t an astounding quality of darkness associated with it (at least, not aesthetically). It was a gilded pocket watch that meant all of heaven and hell and earth to him. It was polished and precious, a tangible anomaly that contrasted the ink-soaked sphere in which he had been imprisoned since his childhood. He held the watch dearly to his heart, for it was the only thing of beauty he had in his whole world. He wouldn't dare part with the watch: ever! And if either of his hands were free, he would use it to hold the watch. Whenever he had idle time, which more often than not he did, and enough light, he would stare worshipful into the watch’s face, and watch the seconds hand glide gracefully one revolution after the next. Always with a look of vacancy cemented onto his face, as the hypnotic hand cast its monotonous spell and seized his fascination in order to keep it safe from the tumult that his reality injects into his mind, he watched the watch. He smiles a genuine, but ghastly, involuntarily snarl-like grimace that is the only outward display of happiness that he ever makes, only while he sits in the eye of his watch.

Above him, in the darkoak, sits a different kind of watch, a pair of watchers that watch and fixate on the towns indecent, demonic acts of immorality.  Not many secrets or hidden deeds remain veiled when these watchers reach the point of starvation. Then these vigil crow's begin to tell the travesties that exist only behind the towns closed doors.  Every evening the hideous man sits under the conversation of the crows, never interrupting, questioning, or forgetting the information, his soul heavy and his heart full of sorrow, but only for a moment, then anger steals the rest of the evening...

Wyland and Jeremiah are fully aware of the affects their tales cause their friend. Crows will be crows.  The two decided to tell the most tragic tale, the tale that belonged to the town’s turnip farmer.

This night, trapped, only the thoughts of the farmers fatal punishment as the Hideous man sobbed and quietly whispered "The fate of this townsman shall be decided, when in the grip of the grasp belonging to me". Ready to attack the plagued soul he  waits patiently, as silence and slumber takes over the town.  It is time…...

“Last night’s tale was..was..worser than the  worst” Wyland  explained. “‘Twas about Peter Phyllis, it was, the turnip farmer. He loved his little girl quite a bit more than a father should his own daughter" Wyland tore a dirty ribbon of flesh from the palm of a severed hand. “Poor Abby.” He chewed. “This bloke’s got a pair of field hands, he does; make it difficult to swallow.”

“Oh! Stop complaining.”

Reviews

[Shane Mohamed]

This read was splendid. It really was masterfully woven. For me, it was like reading McCarthy's "The Road" all over again; the same gloomy atmosphere, the same dim reality, and the grievous ending. You have the same intricate style as Faulkner in displaying the details plainly on the canvas, and you paint with irony and sarcasm just as Shirley Jackson does in "The Lottery." I am so glad I came across this piece. I'm afraid you've given me too much credit, for clearly, uncontested, you take the high pedestal!

[Nestor Gonzalez]

i loved it! you made it very easy for my mind's eye to see all that you described and to think you wrote this as you thought it makes it that more epic you madam have a gift :]

[Infurno-Blaze]

interesting short story. Very captivating.

[LadyRosaline]

It needs work..I typed it as I thought of it..

[LadyRosaline]

thanks ;D

[Infurno-Blaze]

its the creative that counts. Would love to read the whole story again once you completed it.

[LadyRosaline]

thanks

[Wpww!!!]

I like the beginning it was really amazing! not the word i was looking for though.

[Leigh]

I liked this very much for its derail and the characters you created.

[LadyRosaline]

thanks