This is the third part of a circular trilogy. The other two parts are called Empty Funeral and Scavengers. They can all be read individually and in any order.
He looked out of the window. The crows were uneasy tonight. They seemed nervous by some reason, jumping between the branches of the dead tree outside. They always gathered around his house, but today they seemed to be more.
He poured himself a drink from a whiskey bottle, picked up a book and sat down. Outside he heard the crows caw. They were usually silent at this hour. Every once in while he looked up towards the window, wondering what was wrong.
He heard a sound down stairs… (more)
No one showed up at the funeral. The church was empty, only the priest and the coffin. The grave digger was standing by the door. The silence was striking, every move the priest made echoed through the big hall.
They pulled the coffin out on a trolley. The graveyard was empty as well. Every once in a while a car drove by on the road on the other side of the field. Crows were gathering in the skies as they walked down towards the far side, down by the fence… (more)
On a treetop in the country side the crows had gathered. All the clans in the area was represented. They had come from the hills, from the oat fields, from the city. Once there had been only one clan, living by the same rules, the same way. Now only the hill clans kept the ways of the old.
Their ways were threatened.
-The destruction by the Handed Ones have reached the limits of the Hill Crows’ territory. The trees are dying. Our prey are more and more scarce.
-We live off the Handed Ones, Blue said. He was the spokesman of the Scavengers, one of the city clans. – You are welcome to come to the city, but I must warn you. It’s not a good way of life. What seemed to be a never ending source of food and resources have turned out to be the doom of our ways, our dignity. Disease is flourishing, rats are ravaging our nests… (more)
He took a long look in the mirror, got the next stroke on. It was perfect. Slowly the self portrait was taking form. It looked more alive than anything he’d ever painted before, anything he’d ever seen. Every new stroke made it better, every next step made it more real.
He studied every little detail in the mirror, every little colour, every last wrinkle, every shadow. It looked real. More than real. More real than…
It had been raining for days. A lot. He was cold and wet. All his things were as well.
The clouds and the rain made the night dark, and with a strike of luck he saw a barn in a lightning flash. The roof was leaking, but he found a dry spot in a corner. There were even some old sacks he could sleep under.
His wet clothes were hanging to dry, and he snuck naked under the dry sacks. It felt good. Last night he had been trying to sleep under some bushes, but the rain had made it impossible. It had been hard.
A roar woke him up…
A story about a former journalist who have decided to take law enforcement in his own hands. He’s investigating a … More