Old Crow

Kika and his brother Hakan were walking through the woods in search of blueberries for Grandmother’s pie. Across the stream, Hakan noticed a bush ripe with berries.

“There are enough berries for two pies on that bush,” said Hakan, stepping into the stream.

In the tree above sat Old Crow, cawing “Danger, Danger.” Hearing the warning, Kika pleaded with his brother to return. “Do you not hear Old Crow?” he asked.

“That old bird is a trickster. He wants the berries for himself.”

Old Crow persisted with each step Hakan took, but the berries were too inviting for Hakan to return. When Hakan safely reached the other shore, he turned to Old Crow and laughed.

“Maybe I will leave a berry or two for your dinner.” He then filled his basket with the juicy berries.

By now Hakan was hungry and it would be hours before Grandmother baked the pie. As Hakan placed a handful of berries in his mouth, Old Crow cawed even louder than before. But his warning was unheeded and within moments, Hakan’s stomach burned in pain, causing him to fall into the stream. The berries had been poison.

With that, Old Crow flew away.

 

I hope you enjoyed my story. Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story, inspired by a photography. Stories for this week can be found at flash-fiction-for-the-purposeful-practitioner-2017-week-32

 

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Sunday Photo Fiction: Weedy Road

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A Mixed Bag

Every small town has a horror story. Ours was the house at the end of Weedy Road. Unsolved murders lend themselves to folklore and for us, the killer evolved into a gruesome figure; almost reptilian. It became a teenage rite of passage to visit the road on a moonless night, and so we went; me, Jack, and Harry. Jack drove his ’73 Impala, Harry sat shotgun, and I was in the back. The old Weedy house looked more like its name-sake than ever before.

We sat while the car idled.

“Turn the engine off, otherwise, it doesn’t count.” Harry knew all the rules.

Jack reluctantly moved his hand toward the ignition, paused, then turned the key.

The silence was earsplitting. No one dared breath.

I jumped out of my skin when Harry spoke.

“I knew it was a gag,” said Harry. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jack twisted the key to the right.

Nothing.

Our breathing intensified as Jack frantically turned the key. Miraculously, the engine started.

Gunning the accelerator, Jack reversed and raced toward town. Another tale for 1st hour on Monday.

Except for the part where I saw something standing in the middle of the road.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short 200-word story inspired by a photograph. This week’s photo is provided by A Mixed Bag.