A Funeral Of Crows

The crows gather from miles around, blanketing the sky in a murderous patchwork of feathers and claws. The cacophony sends shivers in every direction, and the people wonder what calamity is portended. Something primeval is at work.

Lena watches from the balcony, wondering why the grownups are so frightened. Can't they see the crows are simply giving voice to their sadness, just like Daddy does when he's had too much to drink? Perhaps grown-ups run out of pity when they reach a certain age. They've learned their emotions are only worth sharing when you get something you want in return.

All Arise

The entire population heeds the call to arise. Yet to an outside observer no actual call has been made, no clear sign or order to rouse the masses. You might question whether there's a leader at all, for it appears a communal urge has overtaken the congregation and compelled an immediate revolution of activity after weeks of idle rest.

It's a sudden cacophony accompanied by the requisite rush of sound and fury, enough to strike fear into any unfortunates standing in the way of the mass migration.

The flock, once airborne, assumes formation and heads south for its winter home.

Noise

Walking down the street, he stops and listens. There’s so much going on around him that he has trouble making out any specific sound on its own. The cacophony of everything around him is almost deafening. People are talking on the phone. Cars are racing down the street, honking. There’s a poor musician playing for tips. He can’t stand any of it. The sound of people shuffling around him is the worst of it, he thinks. All his life, the only thing he’s wanted was silence. He hears a whistle, then a boom, and then after that he hears nothing.

From Guest Contributor Chris Ellsworth

The Walkers

We have walked about 30,000 miles together. That’s more than once around the circumference of the earth. On clear mornings a sliver moon greets us. Autumn brings magic. From summer’s green comes a cacophony of color. Winter evenings are deeply dark. Light the torch to check the footing.

“Hey, you’re the walkers.” Our neighbors cheer. “Are you married?”

“Almost forty-five years...to each other. We’ve had many stumbles, a few un-calamitous falls but always get back up.”

“So what do you talk about?” A few have asked this. We communicate in silence. Each small step a giant leap for matrimony.

From Guest Contributor Sam Brody

An Ending, A Beginning

Dr. Philippa Marsden awoke with a start, the hard cold wood of her desk on her forehead. She clasped her hands to either side of her head, as if she was trying to hold her splitting headache prisoner. Her breath wheezed through her pursed mouth, but the fever was gone.

"Jonathan?" He lay on the floor, white coat stained with blood, stethoscope laying beside him like a dead snake. Pulse? None.

Philippa ran from ward to ward, the cacophony of the previous night replaced by silence. Pulse? None. Repeat. She ran outside to the street..

"HELLO! ANYONE?" Nothing but silence.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

The Diapason

Before the stroke, Malcolm was obsessed with football.

Afterwards, Malcolm found a part of his brain that had never been used before was now actively engaged. In grade school, he had failed to learn even a rudimentary song on the piano. Now music was everywhere.

When it came to natural phenomenon, the wind, breathing, the setting of the sun, he heard their rhythms as a harmonious symphony. Machines and furniture emitted a cacophony of unholy clamor that caused waves of nausea.

Malcolm held the keys to the universe inside his injured brain. His new obsession was the destruction of God.

We Each Deserve Our Own Bathroom

They lived in a state of perpetual cacophony. They bickered and sermonized, battling each other over everything, from the deepest philosophical questions of their own existence to who should get to use the bathroom first. They lived in tight quarters, and were forced to look at each other constantly. They hated each other. They hated the numbers that served as names and they hated the implied hierarchy of the whole affair.

The scientist who oversaw the entire program looked at his creations ruefully. He should have foreseen the now patently obvious consequences of cloning the Great Leader so many times.