a crow sits shivering
Perched, on the highest post of the tallest tree, a crow sits shivering.
Thirteen more surround him, from underneath.
The unlucky few; their jealousy spills out in squeaks and squawks.
For the crow that sings a sweet song, is a lonely bird indeed.
Burying the Stoics
All the holes I dug wiped out and opened up. Body parts thrown beyond my eye line and me in no humour to go collect. There’s a ringing in my ears. It’s been this way since it started. Though fading, it remains difficult to hear them calling for assistance. Accumulation and relocation is what’s required but why am I the only one doing all the work? Yes, my appendages are still attached but my bones are soft and I’m tired of hauling all these bits and pieces on my back, trying to keep it all together. What’s the point anyway? They’ll just drop another one tonight, the ground will shake and all my hard work from the day will be undone. I wish they’d get on with it, drop the big one. Disintegration. There’s no coming back from that! And if there is… I ‘aint cleaning it up.
Super Ted
The tree was cut down. I used to climb it to see onto the roof of my house. I threw my bear up there once and wanted to see if he had committed himself self to that area, as it was where he would call home for nearly a decade. They tore down that house to erect another when I was 15. The bear was returned to me; greener than I remembered, smaller too. The left eye hacked at, as if by a nervous black bird, set on stealing some shiny trinket… but the bear, keen to hang on to what he remembered, resisted the birds pecks and prods. It aged him though; you could see it on his face. He did not seem happy to see me, but why would he? I did hurl him atop the roof so many years ago.
We returned to my regular routine. The bear was given a spot between my most prized stuffing-filled friends, many of whom he remembered. Everyone seemed to be getting along, but underneath the worn, faded surface Ted longed for the freedom which he became so accustom too. The last ten years were hard on him, harder than any ten years should be for a stuffed animal. They changed him, made him misanthropic and guarded.
I awoke one morning to find Ted missing. One of them must have seen something, but no one said a word. The bedroom window, slightly ajar. He left. He didn’t belong here, with us, not any more. No note, no words, just a small shiny trinket on the window sill. I’ll always be around, watching you.
Short Story, written by Shane Clarke out of boredom and frustration
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