Catching Flies

Tags

Communication, creative, fiction, flash, Love, short stories, story, writing

She moved like a veil in the breeze, delicate and fragile,whispering her love between the clouds as they passed like strangers on the shore. Wisps of her hair, now chestnut, now russet, brushed the silent air, painting it with rainbow hues that scattered their love like angel feathers. Behind the cobweb curtains I shuddered, afraid of catching something that I could never hope to hold; something far beyond any expectations I may have held. I shivered, my fear the cold against the warmth that swarmed around my like an excited army of bees, hungry to feed on the sweet nectar which seeped from her every pore. Stolen glances were always enough: enough to shroud the fear of loss, of letting go what could never be held; enough to feed a dream in which to live, a fortress which I could build and rebuild as I chose, strengthened by a look or an over-heard word.

She floated, dancing on water, drifting ethereal from plane to plane, never resting for too long in any one place. Her voice, the words she spoke, swirled across the land like a nurturing blanket, and I knew that wherever they landed new life would emerge – beauty in the wake of vacuum. Her words touched my ears, kissing them gently like a dying friend, and that was enough.

If only I had known that they had been all for me.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

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Coffee and Friends

Tags

Change, creative, fiction, flash, flash fiction, Friends, Prose, short story, stories, writing

I had always believed that the city would never change; that it would remain a constant in life, a place to which I could return again and again, knowing that it would hold the footprint of my life forever. Yet now, as I sat in the coffee shop, itself now merely a child of an international chain which offered identikit refreshment regardless of location, I realised that I knew nothing of my surroundings. Monolithic buildings had risen and now towered above the remnants of a much older city, a city which seemed to hide its face as if in shame. Giant mirrored panes reflected sunlight, cars, buses and pedestrians alike. Leather-clad riders wove their motorbikes deftly through the traffic, their deliveries already cooling in their carriers, their reflections appearing, distorted and twisting in the glass, before vanishing from sight. The facade of the station stared out across the city streets, its advertising hoardings boring holes into passers-by as if they had some life-changing message to impart. I tried to think back, to remember the city of my youth, the city in which I had learned to become a man, the city that would forever be my home, but I could not connect my memories to the vision before me. The street names flooded back, each one triggering a recollection, a remembrance, and, yes, none of them had changed, but none was truly the same. It was as if, during my absence, the entire city had undergone massive cosmetic surgery: the creases and wrinkles that informed my memory had been smoothed out, erased, as if I had never been here before.

I sipped my Americano slowly, its bitter tang already lost to me, and wondered what had happened to plain coffee and the corner cafes which served beverages unencumbered by exotic language. Names began to form themselves in my mind, drifting slowly into my consciousness, begging for recognition, and, for each in turn, I formed an image of what I believed their physical forms had looked like. My accuracy in this task lay somewhere hidden in the depths of a memory which I was beginning more and more to doubt. I was, of course, secure in the knowledge that these people, these characters, had, at some point, come into my life. Some, perhaps, had stayed a while, may even have fallen beneath the blanket term of ‘friendship’, others would have been acquaintances, interlopers who came and went, leaving nothing but the shadow of their name. I had imagined each as being inexorably connected to the city, as if their very existence relied on that of the city. What, I wondered, would have become of them as the city as the city underwent its rejuvenation? Perhaps they had been absorbed into the very essence of the city, become part of its fabric. I imagined their eyes, eyes that I was unable to picture as physical objects, staring at me from the walls that surrounded me, eating their way into the heart of me. I could feel their presence gnawing at me, unearthing more and more names that had lain buried within me for years.

One name seeped forwards to the front of my brain, chalking its outline into my consciousness. It belong to one of those people who had had the distinction of falling into the category universally defined as ‘friend’. I had grown up with this friend throughout the now distant days of our schooling, and our friendship had endured the days of change when school life ended and the threat of adulthood reared its head. It was true that we had followed different pathways – he had plunged headlong into a world of employment and responsibility whilst I had sought to avoid such ties by attending the city university. We continued to drink at our usual haunts and waste our free hours with the same distractions that we had grown up with: it was as if we were children of the city and it, as any dutiful parent would have done, was holding our hands as we grew. And then I completed my years at the university, my now qualified status hanging from me like an anchor rather than wings, and the door opened up on my future career. At the same time another town came calling, your name on its lips, and you were gone.

Eight years. Eight years out of a lifetime. Eight years during which it had seemed unthinkable that we would ever not be friends; not criticise our local teams; not put the political world to rights; not drink away the long summer nights. And yet eight years disappears beneath the days as they pass by building walls behind which we can no longer witness the change that creeps silently all around us. Before I had even realised it, as life guided me along pathways that I could never have predicted, pathways that monopolised my hours, years had passed by and what we had once shared became nothing more than distant memories: memories that I could no longer trust. Memories that, for all I now knew, may be no more than figments of my imagination. Before long the city had shaken me off too and, under the guise of ‘career development’ my life led me to different cities, all of whom welcomed me like a prodigal son. Roots were cut and roads forgotten.

And now, as I drained my second Americano and watched the reflections of passing strangers appear and disappear in the mirrored glass, I wondered how much of my own life existed only as mere reflections in the lives of others. The faces that had drifted through my life had been no different to my own: they had come and gone in a constant state of change and I, who had thought that somethings would never change, had been wrong.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

A Farewell

Tags

creative, fiction, flash, flash fiction, Honesty, loss, short stories, story, thoughts, writing

I thought of you then, on the day that I left, knowing, despite the words, that we would never meet again. I thought of you as I sat in the darkness, as the Sun dipped like a dying friend beyond the horizon for what might as well have been the last time. I knew that I, like the errant Sun, would rise again, but that neither of us would ever be quite the same: the Sun would burn fractionally less brightly, its gaseous source ever so slightly diminished, and I, with less reason to rise than before, would begin to become a shadow of myself. I thought of you and the words that we had shared wondering if you had ever truly understood my meaning. Had you thought of me as a friend or merely an acquaintance, and had I ever truly understood what lay behind your eyes? I thought of how close I felt that we had become, our shoulders brushing against one another as we shared a joke, our laughter spreading its roots between us connecting us forever, or so I had imagined. But did you leave me behind along with all the other artefacts of work when you closed the door behind you and returned to your home?

I thought of you and wondered whether I had been too obscure, too subtle in my words and looks, for you to see me. And what exactly had I felt? Was this a connection that I felt that I had needed or something that had burst upon me unexpectedly and had opened a new door which whispered quietly for me to go through? Perhaps the moment had come for me, after a life of living at a comfortable distance from the edge, to finally take a chance, a risk. But, of course, caution is a powerful bedfellow, and, by the time I had recognised the chance, if had closed its eye for ever.

I thought of you then and wondered if you had ever lain alone in the dark beneath the Summer’s heat: I wondered if, like me, you had lost yourself to imagination; and I wondered if you had ever found yourself with your hand between your legs, wishing its fingers were mine.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Episodes

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creative, Creative writing, faith, fiction, flash, flash fiction, short stories, stories, Vignette, writing

     It was at that moment that I realised that my life had been no more than a series of episodes: some linked by connections which only presented themselves with hindsight, when events had long since lost their relevance, others disparate, fleeting, scudding past like clouds in the sky; yet more presenting themselves like movie scenes, half-remembered but titleless.

      And it was to these movie scenes that I had clung, as if they would somehow, miraculously and with the wisdom to time, meld themselves into a story that I was able to follow, to understand, even.

     Yet they came and went with the regularity of Japanese trains, each proferring a new horizon, a sense of purpose to which I was a mere distant observer. Landscapes flashed by me, tantalisingly close yet constantly beyond my grasp: I witnessed every imaginable situation, every conceivable outcome, but always, as they sank below my horizon, I was left with nothing more than a hollow sense of detachment; of impotence.

     The camera rolled and then stopped, rolled and then stopped again, as if responding to silent cries of ‘cut!’. And through each scene I played the role of an extra, watching and waiting. Watching and always waiting.

The Awakening

Tags

Awakening, Communication, creative, dream, fiction, isolation, Philosophy, Prose, short stories, thoughts, writing

     A wash of faces hovered above me like a crudely painted ceiling fresco. Eyes, some filled with hope, others relief, bore into me like burrowing beetles. Beyond them an antiseptic ocean of white stretched as far as my own eyes could see; but I was prone, lying like a whale slowly exhaling its last on a beach the colour of gold.

     There were voices; voices which swirled over me like bees returning to the hive, heavy with nectar. Their sweet words bounced between my ears futile in their attempt to make sense of themselves. The sounds meant nothing to me, and neither did the tones which were targeted in my direction. Did the faces expect a response? Part of me guessed that they did, but I could not fathom the reason.

     The expectation behind the staring eyes was palpable, and even my forgotten, deadened senses could taste it. As for why, well, I could find no explanation. I looked back up at the waves as they crashed and dispersed before my eyes and realised, at last, that not one of them meant anything to me.

Dale Street

Tags

creative, fiction, nostalgia, short stories, short story, story, writing

A bit long, perhaps, but I hope you’ll stick with it (and enjoy!)         

          Only once did I go back. For only one moment did I find my mind swamped with nostalgia and feel its frond-like fingers clutching and clawing at me, trying to choke my future from me. It was only once, merely one, brief moment, one solitary idea which grabbed my thoughts, imploring, pleading, persuading them to take a different pathway; speaking softly in sweet, seductive tones of unfulfilled desires, aspirations unachieved, yet still within reach of my out-stretched hands – of opportunities whose doorways still remained ajar. It was one solitary moment in time, one glimpse of a half-forgotten time, which, in my madness, I allowed to place temptation on my lips; one moment, but still one which I felt inexplicably compelled to follow. Only once did I go back to Dale Street, to see the place where I was born.

          The street looked as it always had done; worn, tired asphalt stretching endlessly before me, dead, grey paving slabs broken, raised and uneven, failing in their ceaseless battle to fight back the weeds which pushed insistently up through the cracks which ran between them. The weeds, it seemed, were the only thing fresh and different in an aspect that otherwise remained forever static. I walked onwards, letting my feet take lead me on a once familiar journey. I walked past doors that I remembered and those which I had never seen before, although I knew that they must have always been there. Gaping windows watched my journey with disinterest as I moved along the pavement, the heels of my black, recently polished shoes clicking gently as they struck the concrete. I imagined the sound echoing through walls, connecting with pasts that hung unobserved in the air deep within the houses, resonating with memories which had long anticipated my return.

          The air that swept me along was warm, tempered only by a softly whispering breeze – a perfect summer’s day – which spoke to me in hushed tones of distant pasts. I could feel the sensitivity of its fingers stretching out towards me like electric wires, their fibrous tendrils crackling, urgently trying to close the gap between the past and the present, desperate to bring themselves close enough to bridge the gap and to complete the connection. I walked alone, aware of the life beginning to rise once more within me, past neatly tended gardens, low built, red-brick walls and alley-ways which stretched away from me like lost children exploring newer and newer connections of their own, making memories which would be unique to them.

          The footpath fell away, almost without warning, opening out into a wider stretch of tarmac which was scattered liberally with cars – passers-through, people who had no connection to me, although of this I could not be sure – visitors; customers. From within the newsagent’s shop, which stood, as it had for generations, as a Mecca for the child with loose change to spend, money that had, at all costs, to be spent, I heard voices. I heard the voice of a boy, a voice that resonated with me. It was a high voice, its young pitch clean; happy, perhaps, but laden too with more than a hint of pleading. The woman’s voice was older, static and unmoving, and as familiar as the boy’s. The denial was final, unequivocal, and even without looking I could see myself in the scene – the turning of a shoulder became the turning of a back and a blocking of ways. The tone dropped lower to an insistent, menacing hiss, and the joy of youth was instantly diminished. One figure moved towards the door, steadily and with conviction. For a moment the second, younger figure was still, as if it were tied to the object of its desire. The boy waited in silence, but the force of his will was not sufficient to sway either his mother or the things that were the focus of his stare: nothing moved. Then, as if responding to the inaudible shrill of a dog whistle, he turned, his reluctance and disappointment hanging like a black clock from his shoulder.

          Outside the grocer’s shop I saw a face that I thought I recognised from many years before. Briefly I was returned to a time that I thought that I had lost many years ago. Once again I was submerged in my teenage years, wrapped in youth and futures that I dreamed were real. I was in a time when options and opportunities were myriad, and I had no inkling, no concept of the fact that it would be me myself who would be the block to my own ambitions and be the one who stood in my way. For now all futures were possible, the table was full, and all I had to do was to select the meal that would fulfil me, and sate my needs. I felt a glow rise within me, filling my aching eyes, and with hope I moved forward. I recognised the girl, and as she turned around she looked into my tired eyes.  By the time my feet had taken me nearer to her, however, my focus had been restored, and as we crossed one another’s paths, we passed as strangers. Words like daughter, niece and grandchild fell from my mind onto my lips and then died, tumbling unspoken to the floor.

          I passed beneath the black-arched bridge which bore the weight of heavy trains as they too took treasures away from the town that had been my home. Its grime and graffiti stained bricks echoed with the sound of dogs as they barked their warnings. For a while I paused, half expecting the rumble of great metal wheels on tracks to awaken something that had been asleep for too long, but no sounds came from above me. And then I was in daylight once more, following Dale Street as it led downwards, its decline more severe than I had remembered. I crossed the gurgling stream, watching it as it continued its endless struggled against the broken undergrowth, discarded rubbish, plastic bags, road traffic cones and abandoned tyres. It bubbled words up towards me, and as they broke the surface of the water, they spoke to me; harsh words and tender lies, ignored advice and disregarded orders, words that I craved to hear, and those that I had never asked to be aired. My ears were ringing and, as I looked both back at the road along which I had walked, and forward to where it was leading, I realised that they had never told me which way it was that I had to go.

          A small group of men walked past me, talking of trivia, filling their motion with empty words as if by doing this their time would bear greater meaning. In their eyes I recognised the expressions of boys, boys who had been forced to spend too long in the same place; boys for whom the novelty of the new had worn out its welcome. And now they were men, men who had lived beyond the point of leaving; men who lived in resignation and acceptance, trapped by themselves, yet within whom still lived the child who they could not quieten. I turned my eyes away and, in my own movement, realised that I had gone unnoticed by them. My voice wanted to roar, to make my presence known. I wanted the street to acknowledge my return and to be aware of my existence. I wanted the town to recognise the son who had come back to it. I wanted the Dale Street of my memories, my clouded, rose-tinted, faded, romanticised memories to take me back.

          But my roar was nothing more than a whisper which floated gently into the air above me and then disappeared without notice over the town that I called home.

Random Ramblings (2)

Tags

Communication, creative, fiction, flash fiction, writing

A few lines on the importance of punctuation…and listening.

You said, “Please, don’t go.”

I turned and walked away, my world shattered.

My ears heard, “Please don’t. Go.”

Random Ramblings

Tags

creative, fiction, flash fiction, short stories, writing

She had always made assumptions.

She assumed that the truck would stop.

It was the last assumption that she would make.

 

Some lines that have been rattling around for a while, but which will never amount to more. Just thought I’d dispose of them!

Stainless Steel

Tags

creative, fiction, short stories, stories, story, writing

Time, I feel, for a short(ish) story. Hope you enjoy it!

 

When they come, as surely they will, they will go first into the kitchen. Despite my protestations, regardless of my words, they will draw back the bright-striped coloured curtain, ignoring its golden, thick-woven braiding, its subtle details, and enter the room. They will brush disdainfully past the plain, polished pine of the door frame, and set their feet against the cool, hard flagstone tiles. Their shoes will, undoubtedly, be practical, solid and uncomplicated; their soles too thick to appreciate the slight unevenness of each slab as it jostles with its neighbours for prime position. Their highly-trained, analytic eyes will scan every aspect of the room, internalising each detail, speculating, deducing and then committing their conclusion to fact. They will see the high polish on the glittering diamond granite worktop as it sweeps in both directions from the multi-ringed range; but they will not be moved by its antiseptic cleanliness, or by the knowing wink as it sparkles in its surface. They will not be drawn by its practicality and sense of purpose as might a chef. No. Instead their minds will be consumed will painting a study, a caricature of me, and a critique of my life.
The sink is unsoiled, clean, empty and disinfected: Only the most detailed of inspections would reveal the most minute of scratches the mar its skin. The drainer too tells a similar story, wiped clean of the residue of water which had ran from crockery and cutlery now neatly stored out of view. Their eyes will not see the pristine espresso machine which occupies its pre-ordained space like an princely heir sitting at the joining of the granite surfaces as they run perpendicular to one another; one reaching out towards the range, the other like a long-fingered branch stretching out over a range of expensively veneered beech drawers and cupboards, an open wine rack stocked with a selection of overly priced bottles, and an integral fridge-freezer. No, their analytical eyes will pass all this by as if it were merely a collection of clues which would lead them with unerring conviction ton their inevitably conclusion.
Instead their eyes will be drawn to you. You, laying prone and exposed on the floor, framed by the expanse of expensive stone tiling. You, suddenly revealed in your true form, as if disturbed by some shadowy intruder. You, as ever, the centre of everybody’s attention. They will see you, asleep on the floor, your right leg raised slightly, bent at the knee; your right arm flaccid, limp against the stone, whilst your left one leads to a hand hopelessly flat against your chest, its fingers clutching desperately to hold on to life. Your eyes are closed, almost in a state of resigned relaxation, and yet there remains something defiant within your face, a determination which has refused to leave you. Somehow you are still clinging on to a belief in yourself, a belief that the universe revolves for you, and that without you we shall all cease to be.
Their eyes will see the ice-white tee-shirt, which, as always, is slightly too small for you, as it clings to the muscled outline of your torso. They will see your strong arms, with their well defined yet now defunct biceps and triceps, and your ruined chest. They will see the scratches and the incisions that have at first driven the cotton into your flesh and then in the same coarse action ripped them free again. These are not the signature of a surgeon’s scars, dealt with purpose, care and precision, delivered with salvation as their goal. These are not like the fading wound which lies on your skin where your appendix once was. The scar that had changed with your mood or the company that you were keeping at the time: The scar that had been the mark of a still born twin, helpless and conjoined, who had sacrificed any hope that it may have had in order to allow you to breath in life. The scar that had been a cancer which had been released, thankfully benign, from your abdomen. The scar that had been left by an assailant’s blade as you had performed one more heroic deed of bravery. No, theses scars had been delivered with anger, passion and a rage that could no longer be contained. There had, quite clearly, been some attempt at precision, an attempt to complete the task as swiftly as was possible, but just as obviously this was not the work of a scalpel wielding surgeon. No, this had been an act which displayed a far deeper connection between victim and perpetrator.
They will look from you and the shape that you make to the floor and the mass of congealing liquid which hugs its rises and falls. It will no longer be the crimson passion that it once was, but will have taken on a new form that of spilled, black treacle, still sticky beneath its now rubbery skin. Experience will have taught them not to be surprised, as I was, by the size of the lake that had spread out across the tiles: This is only a fascination to the uninitiated. Rather they will study the form and shape that the lake has taken, and from this conclude which blows led to which spillages, and in which order they fell. They will make rational the irrational and make impersonal and analytic the impassioned.
Their eyes will see the dropped and discarded length of metal, naked and separated from its compatriots, and realise that this is the only object that is out of place in the kitchen. At the moment it is closer to me than it is to you, but they will not see this. They will see only eight inches of stainless steel, turned and polished and proud of its quality, now lying stark and forlorn against the stone. They will see the globules of sticky, red liquid as they cling to the five inches of ground and sharpened steel. They will see the smeared stains which have taken their shape and appearance from my skin and have impressed themselves on the handle. But they will see no further. The stains will cry out to their audience like tell-tale children, expecting no greater reward than recognition of themselves, and to be smiled upon. They will see all of this and they will know. They will know all of this, and know all that they need to know, but still they will not make me out to be the monster that you made me.
But for now I will leave you. I will let my weary feet take me from the kitchen, from our final encounter, and lead me over warm wooden boards towards the staircase. For a moment I will pause, but I will not turn my head-there is no longer the hold to draw me back-and then I shall slowly climb the stairs, with each one savouring the silence, until at last I reach our room. I will open the door onto the emptiness, step beyond the naked frame and stretch out my hand towards the bed. With a deliberate hand I will carefully draw back the black, patterned quilt which sleeps so easily against the smooth cotton of the freshly pressed sheet, and slide inside. I will lie on my back in our bed and stare into the darkness, and I will enjoy the stillness. Beneath the quilt I will be enveloped in tranquility: My body will finally be at rest from your demands, and I will be sore no more. I will not feel the presence of your body, its insistence, its pressure and its determined persistence. I will not hear the emotionally charged sounds that your mouth makes as both you and I lie in silence, in separate rooms now, only yards apart, but still connected. I will lie here in the bed that you once shared with her, and you will lie with no-one. I will lie and in my own time close my eyes against the darkness. I will lie in the stillness that surrounds us both and have a good night’s sleep for once: And you will lie and have a good night’s sleep for evermore.

Crow Catcher

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creative, fiction, short stories, short story, story, writing

          Infestation is an unusual word to be used in connection with birds. Unusual, yes, yet most definitely the word to be used when the involvement of Taras Morovic was required. A more general and accepted usage of the word would be in relation to animals more often considered to be pests, animals such as cockroaches, wasps, locusts or rats, but on this particular occasion the word ‘infestation’ most definitely referred to birds. This was not just a random collection of birds either, nor was it an over-inflated influx of migratory animals which had discovered it to be lost and was taking stock of its surroundings and therefore its options before moving on. No this was an infestation of a more serious, permanent and menacing variety, for, over the course of many preceding months, months which themselves may have swollen into years, the village had, without notification or warning, become overrun by crows. Even the crows that now filled the skies and lined the streets did not appear to conform to the expected dimensions of their breed: they were larger, blacker, bore more sturdy grey beaks and brandished more ferocious and deadly talons than any crows that any human could recall.

          No one who resided in the village could accurately put a time scale as to when the birds had begun to appear. Some argued that the birds had steadily been building in numbers over the course of many years; others protested that they had all appeared at the same moment, flooding the sky like a thunder storm. What everyone did agree upon, however, was that one day it was a lonely murder that sat atop a tree adjacent to the road which led people to and from their houses, and then the next the flock had swollen to proportions that were barely conceivable, let alone numberable. At first, although somewhat perplexed, the majority of the villagers accepted the situation, after all the birds seemed content to live off carrion and scraps, and, apart from the occasional cawing in-fights, caused no-one any undue alarm. Things, however, had rapidly begun to change. People had started to notice that the crows had become bolder and more invasive in their behaviour. Now they no longer seemed content to live off the scraps and hand outs from their human neighbours – now they had taken to flying, at first individually, and later in twos and threes, directly into houses and shops. Here they casually and confidently took what ever they felt that they wanted or needed, regardless of any human intervention. Once again many of the villagers, at least at first, thought this behaviour charming if, at times, a little intimidating, but when the novelty began to wear off they found it impossible to deter the birds. In fact the crows now deemed it their right to take what ever they wanted and at a time which suited them and their attitude shifted from one of confidence to one of pure aggression. Within days reports from across the village of vicious bird attacks began to circulate: people had received cuts and scratches, bruises and lacerations which had reached the bone. Everyone spoke with one voice – the time for action had come.

          By the end of the week the village leaders had gathered themselves together and formulated their plan of action. Every form of discouragement from scarecrows to rattling tin, from cats to guns had been tried, and all to no avail. There were no further options open to them: the message was sent out, and the mysterious Taras was summoned.

          Taras Morovic was by no means a large figure. His small, squat frame, almost cunningly designed to disguise his strength, gave him the look of a strangely deformed and stunted man. His head was somewhat square, surmounted by a thick, unkempt shock of black hair, loose curled and dense. Barely visible beneath its cover his eyes were deep-set, intense and dark; his mouth, small and thin. No-one who had ever met him could remember his smile. Taras spoke rarely, and when he did he kept his words brief, succinct and to the point – he was not a man to waste his breath unnecessarily. The one and only thing that he liked, it seemed, was his work, and at this he was expert. No infestation had ever managed to defeat the skills that Taras Morovic possessed and the crows he now faced would prove no exception.

          When Taras arrived in the village he was greeted with both warmth and courtesy. Many of the villagers lined the streets which led to the centre of the village and the Council Hall. Some villagers shouted their welcome whilst others displayed a more restrained reverence – but the stranger in their midst was ambivalent to everything around him. Behind closed doors discussions were held between concerned and worried villagers as to whether or not this odd character who had descended upon them was up to the job, and whether or not they would be freed from the plague that blighted them. As the villager elders stepped out of their hall the crowd hushed in excited anticipation. Without a word they led Taras through the open doors. Once inside the councillors talked, outlining their requirements and expectations. Taras listened attentively, occasionally scribbling something into the small, black notebook which was his constant companion. Only when they had completely finished did he speak. He told them of his fee, and, without hesitation, the councillors agreed. Money exchanged hands, and the deal was done. Taras stipulated only one more thing and that was that the streets of the village be empty by midnight. The councillors acceded to such a simple request.

          Had anyone been watching as the hands of the town clock swept past twelve they would have seen a small, squat figure, clad entirely in a black hooded cloak drift soundlessly through the streets. They would have seen the figure’s arms make gentle, undulating motions as he passed each house, and the most sensitive of ears might just have heard the strange mutterings that he made. Had anyone been watching they would have caught the last glimpse of the strange, ethereal figure as it floated out of the village and away from their lives forever. But, of course, no-one was.

          Nobody knew exactly how it had happened, what weird and mysterious events had unfolded during the course of the night, but, as one by one they awoke, each person in the village became aware of the change that had taken place. The crows had gone, most certainly, disappearing as dramatically as they had once arrived. The only sign that they had ever dominated the village lay in the nests, already, it appeared, crumbling in the tops of the trees which surrounded the village. No-one understood what had happened, and no-one asked for explanation – they were merely content in the fact that their problems had vanished. As the days became clearer people started to wonder what kind of magic or slaughter had taken place – but the man who had come and gone within a day had left no trace of his presence, and not even a feather remained of the crows. As days passed into weeks and weeks into months all talk of the crows and mystery faded, vanishing into the sky as once their troubles had. The village returned to a life which it once had known as if nothing had ever changed.

          Deep in the forest, hidden from even the most curious and perceptive of eyes, Taras Morovic sat, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards in his chair. He sat outside his compact, wooden cottage, which itself was nestled in the safety of a well guarded clearing, eyes closed, lost in thought. Around him a large number of enormous black birds pecked calmly at the many carcasses which lay on the ground. Occasionally they would stop, raise their heads, and talk to one another, their language strange and unfathomable, but soft and succinct. Taras opened his eyes and surveyed his kingdom: the trees were lined with paper-like nests, filled the harmonious hum of a million wasps; around their trunks countless cockroaches rummaged, re-organising the undergrowth like a well rehearsed army. In the bushes a large colony of rats worked tirelessly, designing and redesigning their living quarters, searching for perfection. In which ever direction Taras looked his eyes were met with the rewards of his labours; in every direction he saw harmony. He closed his eyes once more, and pondered his next collection.