Second Helpings

The birds assemble in 45th Battalion of the 14th Brigade, toting a company of bitter sparrows with a streak of bad luck running through their plumage. The Crow posts on the church cupola, coughs out orders with a crucifix. His feathers are slick and black like oil. Oil, oil, he oils the mechanism that does his bidding, rusty branches of a broken weathervane. Fluorescent fly trap. The metallic buzz that slices through silence, through innocence, through September… October… November… Indefinitely. But you can't take the Enemy sitting on a shock wire, nor can you predict a storm with your head in the dish of Ignorance, eating it up like sweet honey, so that it sticks to your throat like sweet honey, and you're left licking your fingers with delicious disgust and listening to the birds play morning taps.

-Kimberly Walleston

Literary Magazine Home Page »