Our Time With The Crow

“There’s a black hole in front of you, but you want to go in it.  They say it pulls you, but really, you move towards it.  You want to go through.”

            I laughed, maniacally, sarcastically, it was up for interpretation.  The way his lips moved, the way he believed everything he said down to the last unscientific piece of bullshit.

            “Did you know they think black holes might be linked to worm holes?” he pushed through my laughter.  “Then you would travel to a new place, some unseen dimension, galaxy, or even universe.”

            “One problem�"mortality.”

            “No,” he stood from his chair, glaring down at me, brown eyes threateningly deep.  “You don’t understand, it’s a metaphor.”

            “I’m sorry,” I couldn’t hold a straight face, “I never got poetics.”

            “You don’t get poetics,” he muttered, “You feel it.”

            “Oh then, I’m so sorry.  I must be one of those sociopathic writers.”

            “If you’re just going to mock my art, then I have no reason to stay here.”

            “What if my art is to mock your art?  Then aren’t you completely discrediting my choices?”  My stomach steadily hurt, the laughter tearing my throat to dry shreds.

            “Well, you asked me to help you.  If you don’t know how to take help, then why the f**k should I bother?”

            “Wait, one second.”  My body felt heavy, but I managed to flip myself out of the sunken couch.  “You know I’m joking.  It’s who I am.”

            “Yeah, and that’s why you’re probably failing!”

            “Some of us express the good, what’s so wrong with that?”

            “Has anyone ever told you that you use humor to hide your true feelings?”

            “Oh okay, because I like to laugh I must secretly be feeling something that I hope no one will ever find.  But you got me you little scoundrel; you found me out!”  My eye began tearing, my chest burning.

            “I’m serious,” he grimaced, licking his lips, leaning in.  “You have such a brilliant mind, but the only thing I ever hear from you is some sarcastic, witty remark.  You clearly understand the world, but you don’t let anyone see.”

            “Maybe I make jokes because I realize there is nothing to understand in this world.”

            “See, there you go, depth.”

            “Admitting something blatantly obvious?  You call that depth?”

            “If it seems so obvious,” he finally chuckled a little, loosening up, leaning back, “then stooping to my level and writing some true, emotional prose shouldn’t be too difficult?”

            “About what?”

            “Tell me a story.”

            I couldn’t think.  Somewhere it clicked inside of me, the torch enflaming in my chest, ideas turning the waterwheel of my mind.  He was right, because without some humorous cover, nothing felt comfortable.  Anything that started out without a punch line became too personal.  I had to separate myself.

            “No humor.”

            “A little?”

            “Maybe.”

            “All right,” I smiled, relishing those last few moments of procrastination. 

“A blind crow lived in a tree.  All the other crows in the area would laugh at him, as he tried to learn how to fly.  They would taunt him, saying that he would never be a good hunter without eyes to spot prey�"that he could never fly through a forest without smacking into trees.  He ignored them until he couldn’t hear their voices anymore.  The blind crow began going out at night, just to avoid all the other crows.

            One night, when the moon was enshrouded in clouds, a hunting party of crows got lost in the darkness.  Other crows went out looking, but got just as lost.  In all this havoc in the crow community, the blind crow went out for his nightly fly.  Other crows seeing him cawed for help, asked him to lead them back to their nests, but he didn’t help.  He passed crow after crow, not helping one.  Lost and defenseless, crows were preyed upon, some injured in flight, other ones so far lost they couldn’t find their way back even in broad daylight.  They’d insulted the blind crow so often, that he’d long ago become more deaf to their voices than blind.”

            My lips stopped, my eyes shut.  Everything, silent, empty.  Eyes opened, and he was smiling.  Smiling?  Maniacally?  Sarcastically?

            “That,” he uttered, “Was spectacular.  I’m so proud of you!”

            My cheeks started to burn with blood, the emotions too much for me to handle.

            “Thanks,” I muttered, settling back into the couch.

            “You see, you really brought something to life.  Not just some poke at everyone else.  You took that isolation, that personal separation, and showed the serious side of it.  Oh, you’ve just finally seen it!”

            “No,” I stated bluntly, unaware I was even speaking.

            “No?”

            “I mean,” I tried to collect my thoughts, but they muddled together.  “I mean, it’s not about isolation.  It’s about perception.  I guess in that way, everyone has their own perception, and that could be considered isolation, but really, then everything told in the first person would be a story about isolation.”

            “But the crow separated himself, he was separate!”

            “In what way?  He knew he was still a crow, he still learned how to fly, still lived in the same tree as before.”

            “That’s the thing, just like a person in a crowd, he was with them, but not.  Do you see what I mean.  It’s an exploration in self image, or better yet, I think you are the crow.”

            I couldn’t speak, the once proud red cheeks now crimson and infuriated.

            “I’m not blind, I’m not a crow.  I didn’t think if I told you a story you would tear it apart!”

            “I didn’t tear anything apart.”

            “Why can’t the crow just be a crow.”

            “Because to that crow he is so much more.”

            “But to the world, what is he really?  That’s right, you want to guess?”

            “A crow.”

            We sat silently, not making eye contact.  I tried not to look, but I heard something�"stuttering breaths.  At first I thought he was crying, and then all at once I realized.

            “What’s funny?”

            He laughed harder, holding his ribcage tightly.

            “You finally showed emotion.”  He tried breathing in between words, but failed, falling more and more into laughter.  I knew it was funny, but for some reason I hated him in that moment.  The way he laughed, the way he just kept smiling, believing his point was right.

            “I’m done.  I’ll just write something for the project like usual, because, by the way, I’m not failing.”

            He left, after containing his laughter and packing his bag.  I sat and wrote the story of the crow, in detail, with the depth he’d so a*****e-ishly identified, except for one aspect.

            This time the blind crow heard them all, and still left them to rot.

Reviews

[Mr. Bacon]

I almost stopped reading when the main character's emotion felt phony (see below), but I'm really glad I read this. Your story is very well composed, and a lot of thought went into it on your part, which I appreciate as a reader. Your dialogue was believable, and your characters were developed well too. Their personalities came through in their words, which isn't easy to do as a writer.

My only criticisms are that it needs a proofreading to iron out a few punctuation slip-ups, and that the laughter of both characters felt excessive. I can understand why both would want to laugh in their respective situations, but I don't think either situation ought to have been gut wrenchingly hilarious.

I just joined this site earlier tonight, and this is the first story I've seen that was worth reading, let alone worth reviewing. So well done you, and I might just take a peek at some of your other work tomorrow.