Every morning the crow comes and sits at my window. In its sinister black form it seems to get a great pleasure from tugging at the glorious ivy which weaves its way up the side of my cottage, destruction of beauty is its game. It glares  at me with its cunning jet black droplet eyes waiting for a reaction, pausing to allow enough time for me to run at it in attempt to chase the monster away, its smug black feathers shining and its wings balanced on its arched back.

His singing voice seems to haunt me, this was far from the sweetest of birds, it seems like it has something stuck in its throat when it coos. I wish this was the case, I’d take great pleasure in seeing the monster drop dead at my feet. The crows intelligence frightens me most of all. A survivor and a scavenger, many a time have I seen him peck the eyes from the innocent birds who fill my garden with song and beauty ,as quick as a flash carries their dying bodies off to his nest, his layer and their final resting place. He doesn’t touch the handfuls of breadcrumbs I left for them oh no, he wants meat and flesh!

The high and mighty crow thinks he has fine manners, but I know differently. I see right through his airs and graces. He is too witty to capture. The crow will instantly recognise anything in the form of a trap or snare specifically designed to catch him.I have hated this wretched creature for almost 2 years. I’ll never forgive him for what he did to my closest friend; he killed him, taking his young life away at the tender age of 18. He didn’t directly kill him but the crow swooping at him, like a suicide bomber and pecking his T-shirt had brought on a serious asthma attack , his inhaler was empty, why it was empty is a question which remains unanswered. An ambulance was called but it was far too late he didn’t make it.

Each year I see black swirling swarms of them nesting and dominating the high treetops, breeding. I shudder, there will be even more next year. I know that he remembers my face from that day; it is proven possible that crows have the capacity to remember faces. Yet still that monstrous beast embraces me with its horrid presence each morning at my window. I can hear him conspiring with other crows, the cawing is their form of talking, more like plotting, planning their next vicious attack, but this time he will be lured into my cunning trap,  I’ll be ready for him.


2 thoughts on “The Crow (A Short Story)

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