One Is For Sorrow
by Angela L. F. Coleman
He says the storyline must focus on one solitary crow flying through the bare branches of a tree and, from what one can only surmise, through the sky of King Winter himself.
He says, after I’ve already written over 500 words, that there is a cap of 250 words. So, as I begin the process of editing, perched on the branch just above the roof top where I live, the crow is patient.
“What do you want from me, black crow?” I say, sotto voce through the frost that clings to the window in front of my writing table.
“Caw. Caw.” And without so much as a shiver, he screams it again, “Caw, Caw.”
As my words have now dwindled down to a mere 184, I glance out the window where the crow has begun his flight through the night, and as I walk out the door, the screen on my writing table flickers. Not exactly a surrendering surprise. The prospect of any resemblance of comprehension is lost on those that even make the slightest attempt. One does not attempt to comprehend. One either does or one does not.
If I didn’t know better I’d say the ’words’ were having a bit of a snort at my expense. I will not beleaguer further this subject.