Tale #1: The Unhappy Bride

A young woman was betrothed against her will to the son of a wealthy farmer. No matter what she said, nor how unhappy she became, nothing would change the minds of her family or his, and the marriage quickly came to pass.

On her wedding night, after her husband had fallen asleep, she rose from bed, went outside, and wept bitterly beneath the moon.

A crow looked down at her from a nearby tree and said, “Why are you, who are still in your wedding dress, so unhappy?”

“I did not wish to be married, and I do not love my husband, and I have been betrayed by those who should love me, and so now I am all alone.”

The crow flew down from the tree and stood beside the bride.

“I can help you,” the crow said. “First, take off your dress.”

The young woman did as she was told, removing her wedding dress and dropping it to the ground.

“Now, let me cut off your hair.”

The woman nodded her agreement, and the crow hopped onto her shoulders, and with a quick bite of its beak cut the hair clean from her head.

“Now, let me give you my feathers.”

The crow pulled a feather from its wing, and plunged it deep into the woman’s arm. The crow then pulled a feather from its other wing, and plunged that deep into the woman’s other arm. And in this fashion the crow continued until it was completely bald and the woman was clothed in a thick black coat of feathers.

“Now, take my beak.”

The woman pulled the beak from the crow’s face and placed it carefully over her own mouth.

“Finally, fly away.”

And the woman flew away into the night.

The crow watched the unhappy bride leave, and then dressed itself in the woman’s dress, and placed her hair like a crown upon its head, and went inside her new house and climbed into bed with her husband.

The years passed, and the husband passed away, and after he was buried, the woman sat outside in her mourning dress and wept bitterly beneath the moon. A crow looked down at her from a nearby tree and said, “Why are you, who were never even truly married to this man, so unhappy?”

“I saw myself in this dress and remembered being a crow.”

The crow flew down from the tree and stood beside the widow.

“I can help you,” the crow said. “First, take off your dress.”

The young woman did as she was told, removing her mourning dress and dropping it to the ground.

“Now, let me cut off your hair.”

The woman nodded her agreement, and the crow hopped onto her shoulders, and with a quick bite of its beak cut the hair clean from her head.

“Now, let me give you back your feathers.”

The crow pulled a feather from its wing, and plunged it deep into the woman’s arm. The crow then pulled a feather from its other wing, and plunged that deep into the woman’s other arm. And in this fashion the crow continued until it was completely bald and the woman was clothed in a thick black coat of feathers.

“Now, take your beak.”

The woman pulled the beak from the crow’s face and placed it carefully over her own mouth.

“And finally, crow, fly away to your old freedom, and let me return now to mine.”

The crow, no longer a woman, flew away into the night. The woman, no longer a crow, pulled on her mourning dress, placed her hair like a crown upon her head, and went inside her old house and climbed into her old bed and slept soundly until morning.

And when she woke she rose anew.

__________

Notes:

1. Originally written in October 2013, although it’s been revised a few times since then
2. Illustrated by Holly English, who very kindly drew pictures for a few of these stories when I was putting a small anthology together in 2015 (for which this was the title story)
3. I like crows

night time

I woke up in the middle of the night and there was this skeleton outside, tapping at my window, tapping and tapping incessantly with its long bony finger while the rest of its entirely improbable being just stood there motionless, its feet in mother’s fuschias, each bone held perfectly in place by whatever force it is that maintains their coherence, the whole spectre stained red as blood under the streetlights’ glare.

I tapped back and it tapped back and then it tapped some more and then some more and went on tapping for quite some time.

It was fairly annoying.

It was 3 am.

I tapped back again to see if it would stop but it didn’t stop and I wondered if it was all some Poe-esque torture designed to make me collapse to me knees and confess my sins, but in the end I decided it probably wasn’t, and that it was more likely that, considering the skeleton had no eyes or eardrums or even a brain, it simply hadn’t heard me or seen me or perceived my existence in any way at all. Or at least not in anyway I could understand.

Also I didn’t have any sins to confess, except I suppose for the sin of gluttony, but I’m not sure that’s even really considered a sin anymore, rather than the necessary duty of every citizen, for if we don’t do all we can to maintain the steady expansion of the capitalist balloon on and on for ever and ever without end until even the infinite has been consumed then where would be? In some arid post-apocalyptic tesco-less waste land, no doubt, like I’d always dreamt about, like I’d always wanted, staggering about all alone under a wan unblemished sky.

Maybe that is my sin.

Maybe this is my confession.

The skeleton tapped on and on. I went back to bed and dreamt of clocks and death.

__________

Notes:

1. This was written on the 26th June, 2018
2. It’s been hot this week and I cannot sleep

growth

There was a growth in the kitchen, protruding bulbously from the fruit bowl, furred and quivering where the pineapple should have been.

“Where’s my pudding?” called a voice from the garden.

I looked at the growth and tried to direct my mother away from it and onto the idea of having something else for pudding.

“What do you want?” I said. “There’s some ice cream.”

“Fruit,” she said. “You know I always have fruit for pudding.”

“I’m not sure there’s any left,” I said.

“There should be a pineapple in the fruit bowl.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any ice cream?”

“No! Fruit! I want my fruit, David!”

I picked up the growth, hoping until the last it was a miniature coconut, that the quivering was a trick of the light, that

that

that

anything

except what it was

It was soft in my hand, and almost definitely alive, moist, like wet bread, and as hairy as a tarantula you’d been forced to stroke at the zoo, but warm and responsive, unlike the refrigerated docility of those poor captive beasts.

I placed it on the chopping board and cut it in half. Blood seeped out everywhere, green and sickly and thin. I skinned the thing, dumped it’s abject flesh into mother’s favourite cereal bowl and took it out to the garden where she sat grimly underneath the parasol.

On my way back inside I absentmindedly licked my fingers, and they tasted like acid. Like acid and metal and electricity being fired through the bones of my skull. I spat and spat into the sink but nothing would make it go away.

Mother loved it, wouldn’t stop saying all night how nice it was, asking me when I was going to go out and get some more.

__________

Notes:

1. This story was written on the 24th June, 2018
2. It’s not a very good story
3. I was thinking mostly of kiwi fruits, but also there’s this thing in the garden, down by the compost heap, and it’s all furry and odd and I don’t know what it is and I don’t dare find out