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.

Ruthless

Dr. Sheila Fabiana, PHD., surveyed the water with her binoculars, looking for signs of predation. Sharks patrolled these waters. Her current task was to record their feeding behavior and keep track of various data related to hunter and prey.

She did not have to wait long.

People think of sharks as ruthless killers, incapable of pity or empathy. Dr. Fabiana believed this was an unfair characterization. People are generally able to feel pity for the unfortunate and empathize with others, including both humans and animals.

Sharks are literally incapable of pity or empathy. Ruthless by definition, but are they really?

There Was No Pity

I watched my daughter die.

The hospital staff laid out a cot in her room. They gave me free passes to the cafeteria. They pitied me in a kindly way and I hated them for all of it.

I watched my daughter die.

I argued with the doctors. I argued with the customer service agents. I argued with my friends and family for no good reason. They all pitied me. All of them were one way conversations. None of them knew what to say to me.

I argued with God and there was no pity.

I watched my daughter die.

Missed Connections

The waiter comes around to check on me again. I avert my eyes in embarrassment and try to discreetly check the time on my phone. Going on two hours now. I should really give up.

“Sitting inside! Text me when you get here x”

Sent.

Delivered.

Read.

Ignored.

I sigh and crumple. I call the waiter over. I order a drink. “Of course, madam,” he says as he scurries away. Was that a look of pity in his eyes? I decide I’d rather be drunk than dwell on that any longer.

Man. Remind me to never use this app again.

From Guest Contributor Rachel Martz

Forgotten

He doesn't remember me. I used to be someone who was close to him. At least I thought I was close to him. He'd look at me as if I were a friend. He'd look at me as if I were a stranger but what exactly was in those eyes? In those sparkly eyes, was that affection, sympathy, or simply pity?

Seeing him walking down the street were the only happy moments of my life. Doesn't he remember he saved me once and every day since then from all my misery. Well, the truth is I don't remember him either.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

Delusion

As he nailed the boards over his windows one by one, each pounding of the hammer reinforced his decision. The world was about to die.

The sad part about reality is there can never been any ironclad certainty. Civilization was coming apart at the seams, an obvious fact if you just looked around. But people said he was crazy and chose to ignore all the warning signs.

He felt sorry for them. They had fallen under the mass delusion, and they would not be prepared for the end times. Perhaps his pity would be some solace as they all burned.

In Which We Get Multiple Points Of View

"I was provoked!"

Dennis plead his case with the self-assurance of someone who refused to consider another point of view. Amy pitied him.

"It doesn't matter what he said to you. You can't just punch someone."

Amy's pacifism, for all its naiveté, no longer had even a slight element of cuteness. Dennis knew firsthand how ugly the world could actually be.

The couple continued their argument, their voices drifting across the park. Emily shook her head. It was obvious they were terrible for each other.

Dixon watched the lonely woman, her contempt written plain. "Judge not lest ye be judged."

In The Dark

“Sit down!” someone yelled.

“I need to find out what happened,” I yelled back.

“We were told to wait,” a woman insisted.

The stage went dark. My mind revisited twirling silks, accelerating swings.

“Pity she fell. A beautiful performer,” the man next to me said.

“She wanted to be a aerial trapeze artist since turning twelve,” I replied.

“Difficult to replace,” he added. “She was so talented.”

“Why in the past?”

“Because,” he said while checking the Internet, “It appears she may have...”

“It’s my only child,” I sobbed, rising to walk away from my seat.

No one stopped me.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

The Left Eye Is Enough

Because you can see. It is other people who have the problem--flies cannot understand singular vision; pros and cons blink in unison. Suits and snoots on the train and even the grubs on the street shoot sideways sneers and whispers, feary scowls and snickers. The nothingness bothers them, the absence of the right, smooth as burned-off fingerprints. They are not convinced by your best prosthetic and toss you pity, a reward for your emulation of their normalcy. Dark glasses and patches insult the blind and pirates. Your final answer is the biggest lie by the bluntest knife: a wound.From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

Collect

The men stand quietly, exchanging cigarettes and glances. There is nothing to say.

A klaxon sounds. More than one man sighs with relief: the mine-cage rises from below. Two men open the cage doors, collect the dripping bones of the man who lost the draw.

“Sacrifice accepted,” the mine owner announces, as though the men can't see the evidence themselves.

The bones are buried. The widow and children will receive a fat check from the owner, and much pity for the “unpreventable accident.”

“Okay, boys,” the foreman slaps his hat on. “Go ahead and collect. Coal ain't gonna fetch itself.”

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay