The Three Crows

The Three Crows

As the afternoon wore on, the old woman wondered when the calling of the crows would herald the arrival of her visitor for she had seen the tell-tale three crows the day before. 

A soft breeze tickled the back of her neck as it slid in through open windows. Age had brought the woman comfort. She was no longer afraid of the unknown, of dangers unseen. She kept the windows and doors of her small cottage open during the day. She loved the feel of fresh air on her wrinkled skin, reminding her of a long-ago time, of youth, of innocence, of a life well-lived. 

The old woman did close her doors at night, however. Though she rarely felt fear these days, she was still reluctant to become food for some wild animal while she slept, and had never enjoyed the concept of pain. 

As she aged, she was grateful that her journey had been quite gentle. 

She hummed softly to herself as she washed her supper dishes, the tune older than she, the lyrics faded into the mists of lost memories. 

Outside the kitchen window, more crows began to gather and she knew her time as limited. 

She dried her hands on a threadbare towel and shuffled into her sitting room. She turned her attention to her shelves, upon which rested her modest collection. 

She smiled as she began polishing each item in turn, items collected thoughtfully, each containing meaning she would be unable to convey if asked, but that she felt deep in her bones... meanings from important moments in her past. 

A gold locket... A handkerchief with the initials A.N.B. embroidered in one corner... A silver coat button... A flint arrowhead... she dusted and fussed over each thing in turn, her eyes twinkling as she recalled memories she’d replayed thousands of times before over her long years. 

She replaced the final item, an unsent love letter, on its shelf and she heard it. The crows had all gathered and started the announcement of her arrival. She smoothed her skirt and ran her arthritic hands over her hair to settle the strays, tucking them into the high bun she favoured for both aesthetics and convenience. 

She settled into her favourite chair and set it to rocking gently. She sighed deeply, relief washing over her. 

Her visitor didn’t knock. He knew he was expected. 

As he entered the sitting room, the old woman’s eyes sought his and she nodded to him, her mouth relaxed but expressionless. 

The visitor spoke first, “You know why I’m here?”

The old woman nodded. 

“You’ve been expecting me for some time, haven’t you?”

Again, the old woman nodded silently. 

“Mind if I sit?”

The old woman shrugged, eyes never leaving her visitor, and still she didn’t speak. 

The visitor settled himself into the seat beside the cold fireplace and turned to stare into its blackened emptiness. 

Resigned to what was to come, knowing it would be painless - that was the promise - the old woman sat in comfortable silence and closed her eyes. Though she knew it was time, she was in no hurry. All urgency belonged to her visitor. 

The old woman woke suddenly from a gentle, pleasant dream or, perhaps, a memory, to find her visitor now standing over her... a soft, reassuring smile on his face. 

He whispered, “It’s time.”

The old woman nodded and accepted the visitor’s outstretched hand to help her to her feet. 

“It’s been a good life,” he said. “Full of adventure, love, generosity... but now it’s time.”

The old woman nodded once more and, with one swift, silent movement, ended the life of the man before her. She bent, picking up her trinket, a signet ring, and placed it on a shelf among her other memories. 

As she shuffled to her bedroom, the old woman began to hum once more, idly wondering how long she would wait until she again saw the three crows.

"She'll be fine"

Not so long ago, I had my feelings dismissed. This is nothing new to me.

When questioned about their decision, the person in question simply said (of me), "She'll be fine."

To that person, I write:

Of course, I'll "be fine".

Your summary dismissal of me and my feelings isn't enough to do me any real or lasting damage - you're not that important. 

Far greater people in my life have treated me far worse and done much deeper damage. 

Dismissal and neglect are the hallmarks of my childhood - a childhood that has caused me to develop PTSD. 

A childhood for which I have undergone countless hours of very expensive and comprehensive therapy.

Let me assure you that, if my psyche can withstand the childhood I endured, no damage you can do would compare nor could compete with what I have already endured and, most importantly, overcome. 

I will be fine.

But not because you have decided that my emotions are unworthy of your consideration but because I have decided that you are unworthy of my emotions. 

I will be fine.

Our relationship, however, will not. 

You have just proven to me that, like may adults before you, you do not respect me. 

I will act accordingly.

I will be fine. 

It's what I do.

The Photograph - Flash Fiction Challenge

At writer's group last month, we were offered old photographs that had been part of an estate donated to a charity shop and asked to write a story about it. This is my story:

The Photograph

Sarah hummed softly to herself, a song from her childhood that evoked memories of her father, aproned and covered in flour, baking in their kitchen on a Sunday morning, memories that made her smile.

She tapped short but perfectly manicured nails on the table-top before her as she waited, eager to spend time with one of her favourite people. It had been a decade since they’d seen each other. An old photograph of that person, Sarah’s great aunt, sat on the thick, buff folder just to the right of her tapping fingertips. Though she knew the subject of the photograph well and had seen hundreds of photographs of her famous great aunt over the years, it was only three months ago that she’d first seen this specific photograph for the first time. It had been sent to her anonymously along with a note.

Sarah stood and smiled as a woman was wheeled into the room and pushed up to the table. For the first time in her memory, Sarah didn’t kiss the old woman in greeting though she couldn’t pinpoint the emotions that caused the change in her behaviour and, for her great aunt’s part, it went unnoticed anyway. The woman was glamorous, always had been. Her decades before the movie cameras had crafted her every move and even at 96 the woman didn’t have a single hair out of place, her make up was perfect, her face dewy, even if heavily lined in her advanced age.

Sarah and the old woman exchanged pleasantries and Sarah felt herself smile as she asked after the health and welfare of the old woman before her, their affinity for one another undeniable, cultivated over decades of familiarity.

Finally, as the conversation reached a gentle, natural lull, the old woman mentioned the photograph on the table. ‘Where did you get that?’ she all but whispered. ‘I must have been – what – 21, I think.’

Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping the other woman would continue. Trying to meet her gaze, her heart felt heavy as she saw the look on the old woman’s face, saw the wetness in her eyes. The moment of silence between them stretched for uncountable heartbeats before Sarah could bear it no longer.

Sarah looked down at the photograph one final time before asking, ‘Why did you kill that boy, Margaret?’

Flash Fiction - The Danger of Undeserved Power

Flash Fiction Challenge from the terribleminds blog

~1000 words based on the idea of The Danger of Undeserved Power

Entering the room, he hesitated, unsure of how to broach the subject weighing on his mind. His pulse raced, blood and hormones coursing through his veins – fight or flight in full swing though he had not yet made up his mind which course to take.

She was standing at the window, looking out at the falling snow, and he was momentarily relieved. She adored snow. Perhaps seeing it now, in all its cold, serene, beautiful danger would mean she was in good humour and accept his coming declaration with some level of humility.

Crossing to the centre of the room, he gently cleared his throat to get her attention and held his breath while she turned from her daydreaming, anxious to try to read the look on her face.

True to form, however, her face held as much emotion as a slab of marble. Blank, yet disarmingly welcoming, her gaze settled upon him as she waited to learn of the reason for the interruption. She seldom asked people for anything, and they both expected him to know it was for him to explain his presence.

He gently cleared his throat once more, his gaze dropping to the expensive carpet beneath their shoes before speaking, careful to enunciate every syllable for oh, how she loathed mumbling!

‘Your Grace, we have received word that…’ was all he was able to manage before being cut off by the sound of her voice. His head snapped up in his shock and worry, no one ever spoke over her, not even a syllable and he wracked his brain, trying to remember if he’d been inhaling or otherwise hesitating when she’d started speaking. He silently prayed that this was true while taking extra pains to hear her every word.

‘I don’t care,’ she all but spat. The venom in her voice not worse than normal but he noticed something about her face. There was an expression there that he’d never seen before in all his years of service to her. It was all he could do to stop himself from visibly recoiling at the sight.

‘Has the fabric for my dress been finished?’

‘No, Your Grace. The factory has had a set back. The fire caused so much damage that they haven’t been able to fulfil the order. They’re rebuilding as fast as they can.’ He blanched, knowing that she had ordered the arson attack on the city and that it had gotten out of hand. The people tasked with starting the fire had met their own end in another, smaller fire two days later when the total extent of the damage had been known. She expected perfection and it had not been delivered.

‘Those bloody imbeciles! I simply wanted the urchins in that damned bakery to learn a lesson – no one disappoints me, I don’t care who died. I accept no excuses.’

He nodded in response, ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ His own brother had been lost in the accident that affected the bakery but he was wise enough to know better than to speak of such things in her presence.

He listened to the rest of her brief diatribe and accepted her next set of outrageous instructions. She all but vibrated with ferocity and strength as she spoke. She was quite formidable and anyone who had ever seen her in person understood immediately how she had come to power so quickly, so absolutely.

When he finally left her presence, she was back to staring out the window, her lunch – cooked to perfection – and probably several times before the chef was willing to have it presented to her, being wheeled in through the doorway he’d just exited.

Walking swiftly from her suite, he found a rare moment to breathe and to collect his thoughts before he was bombarded by lesser staff, desperate to know what it was that she demanded next, desperate to know how they would struggle to appease her.

One by one he briefed all of the people who approached him and then sought out those that had been too busy or too afraid to learn of what was to come. The staff scurried from task to task – there was no time for hesitation, conversation, contemplation… Orders had been received and must be carried out to perfection and without question.

Several hours later, when the instructions had all been disseminated, he left the building through a servant’s door and headed to a local café. Bundled against the snow, he was grateful for it as it provided much-needed anonymity. He entered the café through the back door and stomped his boots firmly on the mat inside before removing his heavy outerwear and heading upstairs to the café owner’s residence.

Well into the night, the carefully-chosen attendees of this secret meeting discussed the plans, the details of the coming coup. It had been 5 years in the making, each year the plans becoming more and more concrete, more and more urgent as their beloved country struggled under the control of Her Grace. Meticulously detailed and happening in just two days’ time, the plan was set into motion that night in the residence above a small, unassuming café where, outside, beautiful snow blanketed the world, creating a landscape of dreams, of fantasies, creating a world of seeming purity and innocence.

He knew his role in the plan and he knew it well, and though he understood the necessity of it, he still struggled with the damage his future actions might have on his psyche. He had been ordered to kill many people while under her rule – many who deserved it and many who did not. This next killing, however, was different. This next killing would be of their ruler, their leader, Her Grace and, though he knew they needed to be free of her tyranny, he had never killed someone so young. If everything went according to plan, and how could it not, Her Grace would die the night before her 11^th birthday.