MURDER
- 2 hours ago
- 1 min read
By Arran Potts
Thinking about the end of the world, dad idly pours coffee onto an anthill.
Perched against the peppered stones of a ruined abbey; he feels the sharp edges of endings that line his skin.
Clouds of crows croak and bark in the air around him.
Ravens rustle in the trees; while jackdaws and rooks
settle like shadows on the yellowed grass.
‘We could eat them, I suppose.
We could lure them and hunt them and farm them to survive.
Pull out their black feathers, rip off their beaks and use their
talons to pick stringy meat from our teeth.
We could gather them up in nets and cages.
Hang them in braces from our shoulders as we
reclaim the world after the swarms and viruses.’
On the tower above, a crow sits silent.
He sees the soft jelly of the dreamer’s eye and
clicks his beak to the man’s tongue.
The crow paces out the round belly with his feet;
measures limbs with wings and casts a
shiny glance at the meat below.
All the while, thinking about the end of the world.