The Old Crow

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A little boy's fascination and a curious old crow.


The old crow sat on a bare branch of an oak tree patiently watching the scene below. His head cocking from side to side seemingly to get a full picture or in a gesture of trying to understand. The other carrion were hopping, cooing and cawing in frustration, not caring about the “whos” and “whats”. The old crow switched branches and continued to watch.

The early Spring sun beat down on the crown of the little boy’s head. The backs of his ears warming under shocks of honey blonde hair. The boy was sitting in a position that only the youngest can. His knees completely bent and his butt only an inch from the ground. On his face was the beautiful absence of worry, pain, guilt or even malice. His cheeks were ruddy and his little lips were a bit chapped. The boy wore a pair of homemade bib-alls with the legs cut off just above the knees and a scuffed up pair of Buster Browns. He stared intently at his subject. Every respectable boy had either a nice rock or two in his pocket, an old jack knife or at least a stout stick to carry. In this little boy’s case he was too young for a jack knife but he had his stick.

The old crow lighted on the fence six feet from the boy.

From up the street the boy heard a familiar sound. The sound was his very own front porch screen door screech and slam. He knew what he would hear next but he just wasn’t ready yet. He had only just found the hairy corps in the gutter. The little boy poked the bloated body with his stick and got a little satisfaction from the resistance. Just then the dead dog farted and the boy fell back on his butt, dropping his stick. His eyes were wide with shock and then he giggled. After standing up again he heard what he knew would follow the raspy door sounds. His mother was calling him home. The boy gathered his courage for one last thing. He picked up his stick and scraped the yellow matter custard dripping from the dead dog's eye. The ruddy faced little towheaded boy smelled the sticky mass, dropped the stick and ran home for lunch.


Submitted: April 14, 2017

© Copyright 2023 R.Guy Behringer. All rights reserved.

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