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.

Some Games Are Not For Grown-Ups

Ten, nine, eight jumps to go. Nick meets my gaze. Seven, six, five, four.

Say it, Nick. Say it. Three.

“Irene.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t play alphabet games.

“Isa, come back. Letter I is so tricky.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t jump rope. It’s not good on the heartstrings.

I sat under a Jacaranda and tore the Valentine’s Day card. Nick and Isa 4 ever 2 gether littered my lap.

Grow up.

I dug into my hand bag, pulled out my diary and littered again. My lap brimming with lavender scented paper.

Grown-ups shouldn’t keep diaries. It’s not like I’m Anaïs Nin for goodness sake!

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Visual Verse, Free Flash Fiction and elsewhere.