bronzechimera: (Default)
[personal profile] bronzechimera
This is now; it is when the crow spreads his dark wings and releases all thought. He propels himself toward the sky with the grace of a lady and lands on a street sign not far away. His eyes scan the darkness for any sign of life, and once he finds his mark he stares, and the grace is gone, and fear is shocked into the fluttering hearts of the little girls who see him.

His murder is all prestige and all glory. The weak are left behind to die and rot alongside the trash from which they feed, their black feathers ruffled by the wind. A gunshot bellows through the sky; our hero screeches mid-flight, as he takes the well-aimed bullet of a superstitious man. He falls, a piteous fall, and lands fittingly in the white-marble maze of a graveyard.

She is a lady, who lives in the decrepit Gothic Revival on the hill. A black widow is this lady, but never would one suspect: for she is young and flawless, with soft brown hair tumbling around her face in childish ringlets and blue, blue eyes. This winter night she buttons up her spatterdashes and her coat. She takes her lace gloves off the marble desk in the parlor and eases them on her tapered fingers. Tonight will be the last, she whispers, and fondly traces the waist of her bodice.

Tonight will be the last.

With catlike ease she glides down the steps of her porch, and looks back only once. Soon she has broken into a slight trot, her feet touching the cobbles of the road only lightly. It leads her to the graveyard down the hill, half-hidden behind thick-leaved trees and bearing the stench of dark and death. It is without effort that the lady finds her way through the headstones of Colonels and children, preachers and sinners.

She weeps. A crow opens her beak and caws; she raises her head. She sits upon the tombstone beside her and gestures with her beak, to the fallen body of her brother. The lady looks with earnest at the body of the dead crow, reduced to the same carrion from which his brothers take their meals. She stands, her blue eyes wandering.

As the lady tries to move away from the female crow, she caws.

"Come back," the crow shrieks, "Bury my brother."

The lady extracts from her bodice a knife, and begins to cut away at the grass and soil. For the weapon the lady intends another use, but she continues her work silently.

She glances up at the sister, still perched upon the headstone, almost innocently. There is nothing innocent about such a bird... such a filthy, worthless bird, yet the lady is too frightened of the living beast to shame the dead one. She takes her gloves off the top of her husband's grave and slips them on again, for a true lady, even a murderess, would never touch the flesh and feathers of such an animal.

The lady drops the crow into his grave and places back over him the land that she had cut away. She then takes the knife and salutes to the sister, whose beak opens and releases terrible shrieks.

"Do you wish to watch?" the lady murmurs, and the sister continues to caw. "Then, watch."

She takes the dirty knife and places it at her throat. She swallows and her heart pounds in fear; the time has come for her to repay her husband's blood. The sister caws, and the lady slits her throat and falls, dead. The sister launches herself into the air and spirals off; she will return later with her brethren.

Eventually, the lady's body was discovered; her bones were laced in rotted flesh; a blood-red pendant hung from her neck and slipped beneath the bones of her chest. To none the loss was piteous, for she was a murderess, and rank of the crows' carrion breath.

November 2012


Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags