The Crow’s Descent
I was on my way home, the gritty, dry dirt beneath my broken and battered knock-off ash grey Converse cracked and crumbled. It was fall, a cold, moistureless air perforated the warmth of my body and the area around me like little cold needles as my breath created small clouds of steam. Crisp, dry autumn leaves swirled around my feet as the breeze picked up on the dusty road I walked. Earless cornfields were at my sides. Grey and barren was the frosted soil where many ears of corn grew the spring and summer before. I reached a fork in the road, you could see nothing on it except a little girl running towards me.
“Wait up! Rayman! I’ll tell if you don’t wait!” screamed a strained little voice. I stopped and turned to her. She was half my height, at only four foot five inches she ran with her little legs. She wore a pink cloth dress with a small white daisy stitched into its center. She had pink shoes with white socks on her feet. Her hair was in pigtails
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The house we lived in was considered “ancient”. It was an old farm house from the civil war that slaves supposedly were held until they could go to Canada. It was an old, two story Cape Cod home. Yellow and rotting, the paint and original wood siding of the home chipped away slowly every year. My father tried to get it re-painted, but since it was a historic landmark, he couldn’t get them to listen. The grass in our front yard was yellow and dry, and our apple tree withered away. The old tree was there since we moved in, and it had never bloomed. Now it was grey and its bark peeling off like a bandage. There was no leaves, save one, strangely green leaf that stayed there year-round. There was always a crow, sitting beside it whenever we returned from school. Its black feathers shined and glistened with the light of the sinking sun and the glow of the rising moon. The crow watched us, its head followed our every move perfectly. We stepped inside and shut the