Darlene Foster's Blog

Posts Tagged ‘crows

I am sooo pleased to announce that my story, As The Crow Flies, won runner-up in the September short story contest run by Stevie Turner. Check out the winning story, it is so good, and all the other wonderful entries.

Stevie Turner

Thanks to everybody who submitted their lovely stories this month.  It was hard to pick a winner and runner up, but here goes:

The winner for September is Kelly Wallace-Artieri with her rather touching story ‘I Rang the Bell’.

https://www.kellyartieri.com/single-post/2018/09/16/I-Rang-the-Bell

Congratulations Kelly, you can use this laurel on your website:

SHORT STORY LAUREL WINNER SEP 2018

And the runner-up is Darlene Foster with her horror story ‘As the Crow Flies’:

 https://darlenefoster.wordpress.com/2018/09/26/as-the-crow-flies/

Congratulations Darlene, and here’s your laurel to use:

SHORT STORY LAUREL RUNNER UP SEP 2018

Do check out all the other great submissions below.  I enjoyed reading them all:

 

Lady Pamela Rose – Petals in the  Wind:  http://achronicalofhope.com/2018/09/03/petals-in-the-wind/

 

Lilly Orchid – Of Dreams and Flying Things:  https://inthesilenceoftheday.wordpress.com/2018/09/17/of-dreams-and-flying-things/comment-page-1/#comment-41

  

Merchant Writes Again – Lips don’t Lie:  https://merchantwritesagain.wordpress.com/2018/09/15/lips-dont-lie/comment-page-1/#comment-518

 

Patrick Walts – With New Eyes:  https://patrickwaltsfiction.wordpress.com/2018/09/09/with-new-eyes/  

 

Phil Huston –  Evan Who?  https://philh52.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/evan-who/ 

 

Robert Kirkendall – The Hill:  https://robertkirkendall.com/2014/10/17/the-hill/comment-page-1/#comment-765  

 

Tallis Steelyard – Sometimes One…

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Stevie Turner is running another short story competition for the month of September over on her blog. The deadline is September 27, so there are still a few more days to enter so why not give it a try and submit something. Here are the details.

This is my entry.

Inge's Denmark photo

photo by Inge Bessmann Norris

As the Crow Flies

by Darlene Foster

A multitude of crows sprang from the misty marshland like bullets fired from a Winchester rifle. Their sorrowful caws fell on deaf ears. The smell of death rose with their nefarious wings as they vanished into the low-lying, ominous clouds.

Leasha absently followed the familiar path. She could have walked it with her eyes closed like she did when she was a child. When she danced happily along the path she loved so much, making up stories in her head and believing her handsome prince would come around a corner any minute.

Before her mother went missing and her father went mad. Before her brothers went to college and her sister moved to the States. She alone remained on the home farm tucked in among the fenlands.

Someone had to be there in case Mother returned.

She looked up at the darkening sky to see crows swarming. She ducked as they whooshed over her. Never before had she seen so many at one time. Trying to recall the collective term for crows, she bent down again, holding her hands over her head as they zoomed by once more.

The crows flew into the marsh, landing in a cluster. Leasha stared at the black mass with raised eyebrows. A whiff of decay drifted her way. She left the path and crept closer.

Feeling her way in the soggy bog, her heart thundered and her breath caught in her throat. She was never allowed off the path. But the crows summoned her.

The crows shrieked louder. The dank, fetid smell grew stronger. She drew nearer.

Images of her mother flashed before her. That last day. Her mother at the sink washing the breakfast dishes, so pretty in her red and white checked shirt-waist dress. Leasha shook her head to erase the image from her mind. It hurt too much.

“I’m going for a walk,” she shouted as she skipped out the door.

“Be careful and stay on the path,” her mother warned, as always.

“Don’t worry. I will.”

She got caught in a sudden rain shower and found refuge by a large rock. When she arrived home everyone was waiting for her. Everyone but her mother. Her lovely mother who had gone to look for her but never came back.

Leasha squeezed her eyes shut and brushed a tear from her cheek. She opened her eyes and saw it. A piece of red and white checked cloth in the beak of a wicked crow.

“Where did you get that?” she shouted as she stumbled after the pilferer, her water laden hiking boots heavy and cumbersome.

She fell face first in the slimy mud. She reached for the reeds to hoist herself up. They parted revealing the myriad of crows. Crows resting on bones. Bones partially covered with a grimy ripped red and white dress.

Leasha choked back a scream.

Mother had returned as she knew she would.

She remembered the term.

A murder of crows.

 

 


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