Henry Crow (pt. 2)

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Henry Crow awoke to a cold, wet slap to the face, realizing he was propped upright on his run-down, sunken couch. He was startled when his gaze fixed upon the crimson figure of Dave sitting next to him, smiling--Dave to a T, but covered in vibrant, candy apple blood--as well as a mid-sized bear sitting contentedly at Dave's side on the ground, licking its paw. He jumped up in his seat a bit and started to squirm around.

'What in the FUCK is this all about?!!' he exclaimed, eyes wild with delirium.

'I've gotta have a talk with you, Henry,' Dave calmly replied. Even his hair was drenched in blood; his black suit was sopping wet, the white undershirt clinging to his form and looking like it was drenched in Kool-Aid. Henry was having a very hard time grasping all of this.

'Am I dead? Did you fucking kill me?'

Dave laughed a bit.

'No, no, I'd never do that! No, I'm here to help steer you from your evil ways to show you the beauty of life and human decency. Help save your immortal soul and what have you. Also, there was acid in that turkey.'

Henry readjusted himself in his seat, slicking his hair back a bit and taking in a deep breath. He went to grab his smokes and came back to Dave, lighting one up.

'Why are you all, red?'

Dave sighed. 'This is ain't shit. I figured it'd be surprising enough seeing me after all this while, so I put in a favor to at least have a bit of form before you saw me. I actually don't mind this shade of red on me..'

'Are you a ghost?' Henry asked.

Dave shrugged his shoulders. 'Something like that. A man stuck between worlds, a soul killed by unnatural means with unfinished business who needs to rectify his bit of the world to at least attain something of an afterlife. Limbo, yup.'

'You were killed by a bear..' he paused and looked down at the bear still licking its paw on the floor, 'being flung through your window. Another driver hit it and sent it soaring toward you. That's not supernatural in the least.'

'Though the evidence is tangible, and it can be explained, I doubt you would call my demise anything close to natural, Henry,' Dave said, raising his eyebrow and leaning in a bit closer toward his wary friend.

Henry looked down a bit and took a slow drag of his smoke in contemplation.

'What's that thing doing here, anyway?' he asked, nudging toward the bear.

'He's dead, too; also in limbo because of the situation.'

Henry took another slow drag off the cigarette.

'So, what do you want with me?'

Dave smiled. 'So glad you asked. Do you know the story of Gabriel Grub? It's a Dickens short.'

Henry exhaled through his nostrils after a bit of thought. 'I think I remember you saying something about it, actually,' he quietly mentioned.

'That's right. A surly gravedigger who's sent to the goblin cave to learn the err of his evil ways, one dark and frozen Christmas Eve...'

Henry gave him a bit of a look.

'Are you ready to go, Gabriel Grub?'

'Where--what?'

'Actually, I guess not one of those questions really matter, hmm?' Dave laughed to himself.

In the blink of an eye, Henry Crow found himself in the darkest, coldest place he'd ever been.

...

Black.

'What..where am I?'

Henry Crow was now sitting in a black cave at an elongated dinner table, two three-pronged candelabras sitting at the opposing sides--the only form of light in the dark, frozen dwelling.

Across from him sat two figures in black cloaks, their only distinguishing features the gaping holes for the faces. But they weren't faces underneath the cloaks. Not even a feature. In place instead were oval mirrors staring blankly back, reflecting himself and Dave sitting at his side. He turned to his sanguine friend.

'What is this?'

Dave paused, never taking his eyes off the figures before them.

'Eventually, Henry Crow, we all have to face ourselves..'

The figures seemed to be studying them intently.

'..and the demons within.'

Henry felt coldness plunge to his very core.

...

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(One more, after this.)

Henry Crow (pt. 1)

He wasn't a very nice man.



Henry Crow was not a man known for his blindingly sunny disposition.



He wasn't necessarily the type to make lemonade, when life would hand out lemons, so much as squish them directly into his mouth with a reckless abandon after doing a shot of tequila beforehand, and then subsequently spit on the ground. He wallowed in life's bitterness, at times.



Henry Crow would drift around town after the sun set and the street lights became bright, getting rowdy from bar to bar, breaking the jukebox for not playing his song soon enough on more than one occasion. He was sleazy with the women and sometimes the menfolk too, if his fancy struck him, though more often than not it came to blows of a different kind at the end of the night.



A man with that much bitterness in him has to have had it bore into him right from the start. This was a man who felt life's stinging prick early on. Alcoholic, unattentive parents, countless failed romances, and most recently the death of his closest and only friend, Dave, in a freak accident involving a bear being hurled through a car's windshield. The world made even less sense to him than it had previously, at that point.



Henry Crow was a man who would take whatever he could get. He finds a chilly, near-full beer left alone, he grabs it. He always looked at the ground when he walked, hoping to score a dropped pack of smokes or some other forgotten trinket lying on the streets, undiscerning as to what he may find. He was dirty and grizzled, a slight hunch in his stature and very gaunt; a decent dresser but nothing too flashy, clothes always a bit wrinkled--always a slight bounce in his step. His hair was a thick mess of brown that he'd haphazardly slick back from his face. His brow was dark and thick, and always furrowed into a frown. Even when he laughed, it sounded more like a demonic cackle.



People were always a bit wary around him, though each person expressed it differently. Some react to the fear by staying away, while others would want to poke and pry, seeing what lay underneath the gruff exterior. Often, the latter came with some form of price on the offending party's part.



Henry Crow was a man alone in a dark and dreary world, made darker by his emptiness without Dave and by his own dark mind.



Soon, at least, he'd have one last evening with his oldest, closest friend.



...



Flying bear to the fucking face, he thought to himself as he meandered through the store.



What the fuck?



He stopped in front of the beer, grabbing a cheap 40 for the road. He managed to have a bit on him, magically finding a five dollar bill earlier on, and decided to splurge for the night. He even got his own pack of smokes. He took dull thuds of strides back to his flat. He felt particularly tired that night.



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Slowly he walked up the stairs and almost collapsed through the door as he unlocked it, gripping the black plastic grocery bag tightly. He flicked on the lights and stared at the pile of papers on his tiny kitchen table, adjacent some three feet to his miniature (and rather unkempt) stove top against the wall. He hadn't swept in a while. It was chilly in there.



He rested the black bag on the table and sifted through the contents: his 40 and a pack of Camels--and something else...? Some prize was still resting in the bag, an error either he or the cashier didn't notice. He peeked in. Deli turkey, roasted, thin-sliced. He took it out of the bag and studied it, smelling it, making sure there wasn't anything particularly foul or grotesque on it. He tested just a nibble, and gave a few minutes before grinning to himself and breaking open the 40, taking a few large gulps and then going over to his dingy fridge. He broke out the bread and mayo and topped it with a bit of mustard.



Henry Crow was a scandalous man.



He put on some Mozart as he bit into his free meal. He almost thought it must've tasted better simply by the fact it was given to him by plain dumb luck. The musical accompaniment made it all the more delectable. He attacked that damn sandwich. This was going to make the work week all the more sweeter, knowing he could have that bit of food to come home to. He had plenty else for his mind to fixate itself on, otherwise.



Dave floated to the front of his mind for an instant, as he was about halfway through his dinner. He paused for a moment to take a sip from the 40, offering a bit in remembrance of his friend. He toasted the air in solidarity, letting out a crisp exhale after a few large swigs of the malt liquor.



Dave would approve of this, he thought to himself.



Dave would've done the same thing, if he found that prize in his bag.



After he swallowed one particular bite about halfway through, he felt a tinny sensation roll over his tongue. His taste became metallic, like he'd had some pennies in his mouth. He coughed a bit, clearing his throat, and went for the bottle again to wash it down. He stood there for a moment, feeling a dizziness starting to come over him as he leaned against a metal chair. He started to notice time seeming to slow down, and a heaviness sinking directly into his skull. He looked down at the seemingly innocent sandwich still in his hand.



Mother..fucker..., he thought, as he started to pass out.



He collapsed face down onto the linoleum floor before him, the sandwich hopping out of his grip and flinging itself all over the ground. He lay there, one arm outstretched, the other tucked beside him; he felt his legs going. His breathing was steady, but still a bit slow. He felt paralyzed--his eyes bugged wide open, stuck in a stare at his tiny, messy excuse of a living room. He couldn't even make a noise.



Without warning, a familiar voice came from above.



'Oh, Henry?'



Henry Crow's eyes rolled as far as they could toward the side and saw what appeared to be the silhouette of his old friend, Dave, blocking out the lamplight and looking down at him, pitifully.



Dave smiled and leaned down, whispering into his ear: 'You get to learn you a lesson tonight, friend.'



His eyes glazed over and everything went black before him, traces of "Rondo Alla Turca" jubilantly wilting away in the distance.



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(This one's gonna have a lot of dark humor. I'm excited.)

Short story

Good evening, everyone.

It's been a long time (since I rock 'n rolled [hwwaaahhh]).

To summarize: I've been working on collaborating with numerous creative people around here from many different schools of art; painters, photographers, fellow writers and an amazing, amazing musician. The last one and I have traded artistic efforts--him with a track he's been working on, me with this short story I'ma hit you with in a second, here.

I have a theory that something beautiful can come out of these scary stories I've been working on. Even if they don't manifest into songs right off the bat, I think they're compelling enough to entertain you even as just a story.

So.

Here we go!

...

I dreamt of crows that morning.

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I had come back because I needed a break--my relationship was in shambles, my bills overflowing, my occupation uncertain. Home was never where my heart is, but it was at least nice to breathe new air for a few days.

I decided to go for an early morning jog. Help clear the thoughts, and get the blood flowing.

Generally, when I'd come back, I'd stick to only a few roadside paths to do my routine on. It's a very rural area, you see, so there are no proper sidewalks--and all the good ol' boys revving their engines and hootin' and hollerin' at the unsuspecting pedestrians can make the trek back and forth all the more treacherous.

That morning, I decided to go the path I'd barely crossed before, in my years living there.

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It was a crisp morning. Overcast, with an eerie mist filling every crevice in the valley. Not a bird sang, nor a frog croaked, nor a cricket chirped. Frost clung to the leafless limbs of distorted Oak trees adjacent to the road, twigs twisted and turned upright as if recoiling from something dreadful.

I went to the East. Past the dilapidated farms, past the spent vineyards, past the quaint country homes with the smoke pluming from the chimneys--the families undoubtedly contented within. I went towards the woods, at the end of the the road where it forks off. I can only describe it as, I felt driven to, that day.

Some of the fields, along the road...some of the fields, with the dead, yellow grass, its open plains rolling like waves in the wind, have their own stories behind them. Local tales of murders, or witches' ceremonies from the days of yore, animal sacrifice and demons. Small town superstition to satiate the locals, I'd always believed.

I took in sharp breaths and let the chill numb my lungs; I had a lot on my mind that morning. Along one of those very fields, I stopped alongside one of the wire fences to catch myself and think for a moment. I looked down at the murky mud puddle before me, and back at the stranger's reflection staring at me.

'Who are you today, friend? Where are you, even?'

I laughed to myself a bit, all be it rather dishearteningly, and decided it was time to head back.

As I began to turn away from the field, though, something interesting caught the corner of my eye. Something white, in the distance, seemed to be dancing feverishly. I stopped for a moment, and looked back at it. What I saw next, I still cannot properly explain to this day.

At first believing it to be a sheet somehow blown astray, I was astonished to see what appeared to be a skeletal figure--ashen white, with a menacing grin upon its skull, and empty, barren eye sockets--dancing as some sort of display. Frantic movements, but also eerily graceful. It laughed and swirled aimlessly, occasionally ducking down into the brush, only to hop back up and laugh maddeningly, pantomiming with a white shroud it'd occasionally sport as a cloak, or throw jubilantly into the air. Soon, three other skeletons arose from the ground, and joined with the first one--the ringleader--in this odd danse macabre.

They all joined bony digits together and started spinning in a circle, still cackling aloud. They were singing things that were unintelligible to me; their own twisted, foreign language, interrupted only by growls or more sinister laughter. Their speed became more rapid, and just as their ceremony seemed to reach a fevered pitch, they broke apart, all letting out terrified high-pitched shrieks.

A giant crow flew overhead, its massive wings making loud, graceful swoops as it glided over them.

The skeletons raised their hands over their empty eyes, shielding themselves, and as they cowered in fear, they seemed to disappear into the surrounding mist, and back into the grass. Their cries echoing off toward the hills.

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I stood for a moment, trying to decide if what happened was true, or if it was brought on by a combination of stress and weakened lungs, and lack of oxygen to my brain. Everything was as still as it had been when I arrived, the air just seemed slightly...heavier. I noticed something resting in the distance, some 30 feet from where I stood. My curiosity thoroughly piqued, I decided to investigate.

I came upon two carcasses of two large pigs, the both of them laid out almost as if they were rugs. Their bowels were completely removed, as were every other internal organ, but they were no where to be found. The skin was a bit leathery, but it and the bones were still intact, the heads untouched, and all their limbs were outstretched. As I stared at them, slightly astonished, the crow flew over me once more, letting out a solitary caw before passing. I watched as it flew away, looked down at the pigs and back at the field once more, and made the decision to go back that afternoon.

I walked along the treacherous, lonely road, staring at the angry limbs of the trees reaching out to me.

Home...is a funny thing.

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...

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