crows gray

Describing a giant scythe, pig-iron-colored, sweeping high to low from an overcast sky, the flock soared above carnage in suspension, hostility on hiatus or come to a halt, habitual inhumanity fought to a permanent standstill, then flew on, seeing that it was neither evil nor good, noting, with bird-brain detachment, that it very simply ‘was’—which rendered it sufficient; the playing field, shared by species mismatched, had been leveled.

News spread, crows become its winged harbingers, editing all the caution from their outspoken cries, exultant at this timely return to worldwide wilderness. At the vanguard of its onset, their flight path crisscrossed continents, their clarion caws reverberated canyon to mountain top, glacier to jungle, their droppings peppered seashore, mesa, forest, prairie, and plain, their hardiness kept them aloft (well-fed on cadavers), as Manmade malice—Wave Two—scoured the planet with rip-tide efficiency, The Meek, in brutality’s wake, coming, at last, into their inheritance.

 

She who had been ravaged recognized her assailant, as he stared numbly from behind the steering wheel of his parked pick-up truck. The vehicle had not budged since its owner had given up risking head-on collision with his fellow amber-eyed motorists (predisposed to drift, of late, over double yellow lines). Something about exhaust was similarly worrisome, and kept this man from so much as inserting the dormant engine’s key. Nor did he dare reach for the pack of Camels forming a hard-edge hump in his T-shirt’s rolled-up sleeve; stashed there out of habit, he had not smoked in months. He had not forced himself on a woman in twice that long. In fact, he scarcely recalled such diverting ‘Ms-behavior.’ Fully symptomatic, the Consequence of Coercion had stained venereal urges as with cautionary dye, warning him to avoid any and all "near occasions of sin." Reformed, he was not. The Dis-ease merely made ill will sure to miscarry; repress it or perish, was the Malady’s constant admonition, one the man accepted rather atypically; most of his fraternity had shown less restraint. Most, therefore, were dead—many by means so dire it was best not to think about it.

Thus, when approached by this (vaguely) familiar, visibly vengeful female, the former-rapist shuddered then slouched in his seat… flinching when an arm brushed past his nose en route to the battery-powered tape deck… squirming in the hairy silence that suddenly ensued… sweating under scrutiny bent on denouncing him for villainy, for the blackguard he had been and would remain (despite curbed aggressions)… wincing as the door swung open and sun lit an upraised ice pick… catching his breath, by way of bracing himself, for the weapon’s lethal plunge… then groaning, with palpable empathy, as the woman struck home.

"Phuph!" The sound she made mixed shock with disgust with profound disappointment, her own Dis-ease having diverted the seven inch skewer from the culprit’s guilty crotch into its victim’s ill-used vagina.

A passerby, perhaps jaded by witnessing countless scenes similar, looked on dispassionately; un-prefaced by the suicide’s motive, her attack looked inane. Yet, in the topsy-turvy aftermath of near-total contamination (humans, everywhere, batted transmogrified eyes), mindless-seeming acts could still give rise to speculation. What transgression had incited such an ill-advised offensive? Could the need for retribution overrule ones will to live?

As death throes took possession of the woman’s doubled up body, and her blood, like a scarlet hyacinth, bloomed in the pith of her khaki shorts, her binge of rectitude leaked like grace from the soul of a fallen angel.

 

On crutches...

BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

BACK ONE
currydoglit