C2 - Crows

[Mint]

Rules
1. One entry per person.
2. Four paragraphs minimum.
3. Post your entry on this thread, once you've finished it.
4. Can be a segment of a story, or a whole short story. Can also be original or based off another prexisting fiction.
5. Literacy will be factored in, but any spiffying up of the post you may do will not help you win. (it won't hurt, though)

The Challenge
Write a story (or a part of a story) behind the point of view of a crow.

The most creative, interesting, awe-inspiring, or entertaining entry will win.

The winner will be decided on the 12th of December, and a new contest will start up the following monday.

But wait! That's not all!

Prizes
Oh yes, there shall be prizes.
First place gets to pick what prize they want. Second place gets a color change for their name unless they already have one, which in that case they get a cartoon cat.

Prizes to be selected from
1. Color change for your name. (like mine, Turp's, and Saki's)
2. A cartoon cat of your character, drawn by me.
3. A signature/avatar for you.


Oh, and the person who wins the most contests between now and February gets to pick the theme behind the next skin.(:

Private message me any questions.

[>>ku.]

It was a pitied thing.

   A dark and terrible thing, one feared, one cherised. An end and a beginning. A birth and a death. Something eternal, something so fleeting it had never been captured at it's moment, yet stood around forever. It followed you, and walked beside you, but was always ahead of you. It was a sad thing. A lonely thing. A pitied thing. This was what man feared more then life, yet reverred just as much. It was not glorious, not in the end. Not when you're deserately clinging to life, to that last morsel of control and consciousness, when you want nothing more to be with the people you love and those you cherish. Did it lift them to a higher plane? She did not know. She was not human, she did not die.

There was a rustle of feathers before she took off, black wings spreading like a beacon before she let go of her perch. Grey flecked those wings, those wings that were once a black that shined so many colours like oil, that shimmered with health. Now dooped, dusty. Mud marred them as well as age and dirt. Makind's doing with their war, their own special war that cared for nothing, sought nothing, just sucked everything else to it's breast and held it close until their life became a part of it. It fed on the suffering, tourtured the weak of body and mind. It was nothing. It was...human. So completely human.

The red that stained the ground - grass worn away, worns trodden deep below the earth that was packed down so hard not even mole kind could peek their blind head into the air - was a stark contrast to her wings, even old as they were. Red that mixed with mud until the earth looked like rusted iron. A human thing. Human blood.The forest that had once been here had gone, running still from this place. Souls walked here.

She flew over the dead and the dying. Ignored them in favour of an horizen that spread on forever while beedy, black stained eyes watched on as the sun bled it's own red into the sky that never seemed blue anymore. Man's machines had spewed soot and ash into the air, steam, pollution. The grey was not cloud. There was no rain. Even rain would have been better then this. Rain would have put the dead at peace. That was nature's way.

What pitiful creatures men were to destroy everything.

The forest had run; but she had not. No. On wings that whispered to the dead and the dying, she flew to them. Feet spreading as she landed only to sink into the iron crust. \one man lay crawling, nails chewed into bleeding sores, his identity worn away to muscle. She hopped to him, wings spreading again - but not to beacon, only to balance. How pitiful this creature was, she thought, to run from death. Death saw everything. He looked at her, screaming in shock and fright, not seeing a bird but a metaphor, a meaning of some ancient time that he had only read about. He knew nothing of that meaning. Only that it existed. And she grew bored of that scared stare, bloodshot eyes.

It took two pecks to pop them out.

word count; 549
idea; "crows tend to be symbolic more of the spiritual aspect of death, or the transition of the spirit into the afterlife"
notes; sorry if it's hard to read!

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