My father collects taxidermy crows. Eugene, Samuel, Franz, Albert, Marcel, Oscar, Vladimir, and little boy Poe were staged throughout our house. Poe, Vladimir, Oscar, and Marcel all had their sections in my father’s office. Poe sat above the doorway, and with my entrance into the room he reassured me that he would never stop watching. Once, when my father got me whisky drunk, I gave Poe a drop. I like to think we have a healthy relationship now. It was almost ruined the morning my father placed Poe at the end of my bed, while I was sleeping. When I woke up he sat staring at me, and I set the living crows, that sat outside my window, flying with my scream. Eugene is placed outside of one of the kitchen windows. We weatherproofed him.
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The water is transparent, and its colors are not painted by the sky above, but rather the pebbles underneath. Mostly grey, but I have found the rare creamy orange, or even stony green.
There is a fallen tree that had crossed the river, the now exposed roots have become home to a family of squirrels. They often brawl by the riverside, but since I cannot tell any of them apart, I cannot often make bets on the outcome. The one time I tried I may have lost, but I am unsure. Perhaps all the woodland creatures owe me some large sum of money, and they have been spending years gathering the quantity by accumulating fallen pennies and lost paper dollars.
I find myself sitting on this perpendicular log, my feet clinging to the top film of the stream’s water. Looking down in between my legs, onto the patch of moss that is curled behind the underside of my knee. I take the éclair, that has now been smashed by the weight and warmth of my grip, and bite off a corner. Before I can swallow, I vomit. I can feel its warmth, its hard edges and soft underbelly, a squelching mess of life, a great big goldfish squirming in my throat, in my mouth and then in the river. The rightful place for a fish, I suppose. It swims down the stream. Orange and glossy and
The water is transparent, and its colors are not painted by the sky above, but rather the pebbles underneath. Mostly grey, but I have found the rare creamy orange, or even stony green.
There is a fallen tree that had crossed the river, the now exposed roots have become home to a family of squirrels. They often brawl by the riverside, but since I cannot tell any of them apart, I cannot often make bets on the outcome. The one time I tried I may have lost, but I am unsure. Perhaps all the woodland creatures owe me some large sum of money, and they have been spending years gathering the quantity by accumulating fallen pennies and lost paper dollars.
I find myself sitting on this perpendicular log, my feet clinging to the top film of the stream’s water. Looking down in between my legs, onto the patch of moss that is curled behind the underside of my knee. I take the éclair, that has now been smashed by the weight and warmth of my grip, and bite off a corner. Before I can swallow, I vomit. I can feel its warmth, its hard edges and soft underbelly, a squelching mess of life, a great big goldfish squirming in my throat, in my mouth and then in the river. The rightful place for a fish, I suppose. It swims down the stream. Orange and glossy and