“The Crows ” Written in 2013, edited in 2025.
A solitary reflecting pond sat at the center of a cemetery, surrounded by the gentle flow of natural waters. It was the only place of refuge when home was no longer a sanctuary for a mother and her child. Crows called to each other, hidden in the trees, probably gossiping about the latest neighborhood tragedies.
Crows had become companions to the woman at a young age. Her father had been fascinated by them. Together, they would call them to gather. He, with a crow call always tucked into his pocket; she, with some mysterious, innate magnetism for winged doom prophets. They perched near her like unpaid therapists, offering cryptic wisdom and unsolicited life advice in the form of relentless cawing.
Clouds drifted by, shifting shapes reflected on the dark, still water (the universe’s Rorschach test.) The gaping watery vessel stared back at her, overflowing with the lies she told herself. Things are fine. It’s okay to be treated badly. It’s okay to be chased from your home in fear, clutching your baby. These things are normal. I am the problem. I don’t listen, just as he says. I’m stupid. I’m a bitch. I’m worthless.
Three crows hopped closer. One beside her, two behind, the classic configuration of a judgment panel. The crow sitting by the pond cawed in her face, likely frustrated with how long it was taking her to get the memo. Then it peered into the water, practically saying, Look, dummy, the truth’s right there. Shapes twisted and shifted in the winds above. Winds too high to be felt on the ground, creating a kaleidoscope of revelations. She saw from the crow’s perspective.
Every day, it waited for her and her child, leaving tiny snack offerings like some kind of feathery vigilante. She always cried, but she smiled… for her child’s sake, to hold back the pain, the fear. The bird stayed, unwavering, probably wondering why humans were so bad at learning survival instincts.
The watery depths of the dead revealed the truths she had refused to see. She was not okay. She had been lying to herself. She was going to end up in that cemetery if she didn’t leave.
But escape would never be simple. He would never allow it. She had to learn how to survive—enduring the hardest block of a state penitentiary, right there in her own home. The institution never left him, and the mentality never faded. She was just another punk-ass bitch messing with his shit (an enemy of his survival, a prisoner of his madness.)
She couldn’t flee. Not yet.
Years would pass before she got the chance to leave. When she finally did, with the crows she continues to speak.
Perfectly Human 