From The North

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

Submitted: December 31, 2018

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Submitted: December 31, 2018

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From The North.

They came from the North, the crows; although at first they were too distant for her to recognize the black cloud for what it really was.

A murder! A massive one, too.

As they drew closer, each bird became distinct, with its sharp-beaked head and its wide black wing-span, steadily beating their way through the air. There was no formation that she could see but she was certain there was one, and it would be one that they would rigidly stick to.

Maybe they would just pass her by, flying over her head and paying her not the slightest heed. Not that there was much chance of that happening, for wasn’t she standing in an open snow-cover field. Too much to hope for, perhaps, that they would not see her, but maybe they would just ignore her presence and just continue on their way.

As the first bird landed a foot away from that she realized that was a forlorn hope. Were they going to attack her where she stood? Take her eyes? Strip her bones?

She could run. Maybe that is what she should do, take to her heels and flee but there was nowhere to go, not the slightest shelter in sight. Instead she stood still, barely breathing. Only the odd strand of her hair moved in the draught caused by the crows as they came in to land.

In a matter of seconds she found herself surrounded. Where there had been white snow, now was nothing other than black feathered birds. One hundred of them at least, maybe even two hundred. Her fear robbed her of any chance of making a realistic estimate.

Her feet remained within a white circle for although they had her completely surrounded, not one had come any closer than a foot to her. Where they landed they attacked the ground in some sort of mad frenzy. Using talons and beaks they devoured the snow, the ground underneath, leaving nothing but land that was now barren and stripped of any kind of life.

The murder, she thought, had murdered the land while she had stood, a helpless spectator to its slaughter.

Then, with no warning, one by one the crows took flight, to rise above her and circle there in the sky. Round and round they flew, like the funnel of a hurricane of blackness, poised to drop but instead maintaining altitude.

Even before the single black feather dropped to catch in her hair she knew what this all meant. Nothing could alter it, there was no turning back.

For she had been chosen. She was the Morrigan and these were her crows.


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