Antonio Hopson

Gary Corseri

Lisa Ferber

A Murder of Crows

In their black eyes, one could see morning's sun rise into sweet rapture . . .

A hopeful chirping began and the creatures in the thicket picked and preened through phantom pictures of meals and activities that they might find on this new day. Somewhere in their cognizance, they visualized the dropped sticky sweets left on the beach, or the butt-ends of crumbly hot dog buns, purple gum, or chicken bones with gristle. They dreamed, or perceived to dream, of fattened squirrels and cats that might be left dead in the city's streets, spines, a limb or two—something that would sustain them, body and soul. In their mind's eyes they stood over the carcasses and culled flesh from the bones and then flew into the clouds with dangling entrails.

Beaks clattered.

Some of the creatures were not interested in food at all. Some dreamed of sex—sex in the trees, sex on a telephone wire, in an old dusty attic, on a chimney. While the sun continued to rise, these birds preened themselves in foppish detail and picked obsessively at feathers in the pits of their wings.

And there were those who dreamed of war—war with big birds, war with little birds, medium birds and war with fence posts. They schemed: a fierce talon in the eye followed by deathly pecking? Or a beak in the eye followed by a deathly clawing? It mattered very little who their foe would be, so long as blood be spilt this day.

As the sky ignited, rays of light began to crest the city's skyscrapers, sending golden warmth to the moss-covered thicket. Shadows moved through knotted limbs and made branches crawl like snakes. In a moment, it would be time to fly.

The birds readied themselves.

Some bounced on their perch, exercising cold muscles, some called out crass serenades, exciting themselves, and others dropped onto rooftops and began pulling at shingles small and loose enough to molest.

The denizens in their houses heard the cawing; the clatter, the clawing and the torn, fallen shingles sliding into tin gutters with a clang. Dreary-eyed, they turned off their electric alarm clocks, rolled out of bed; dressed, and in silence, joined the murder.

Antonio Hopson's short stories have been published in Quiet Shorts Magazine, Old Growth Journal, The Harrow Magazine, The Subterranean Quarterly, Farmhouse, OutCry Magazine, Lost Magazine,The Piker Press, and Exquisite Corpse. In 2006, he was invited to read at the Richard Hugo House for Writers. To see more examples of his work or to see what he's up to these days, please visit his website: http://www.antoniohopson.com.