Crow of No Goodbyes
Crow feels the gravity of this world. He tries college, a history
major. Lots of wars, men with engines; and he notices not once in his
textbook does anyone go to the bathroom. It's not so bad, though. He
likes the part where everyone knows not to repeat certain things, but
then they do. Someone asks, "Can you get a job with that?" and Crow
doesn't answer, or want to, so quits. Stays in the dorm room. It's paid
for and he'll be damned if…oh, never mind. He sleeps beneath
a rug on the floor. Urinates in the sink. Drinks his water from the
showerhead. Noon-thirty Rook calls and says, "Methadone failed the
test, Crow. You can't even play Sega while on Methadone. It is not a recreational
drug." Jackdaw phones next. "Why you ditching class, Crow? Who's gonna
study me now?" Crow listens to sweet tinnitus. Water rustling through a
pipe; laughter in the hallway like thrown coins. This is the way to
live, Crow thinks. Alone like a pathway. Like Lincoln, Kansas. Like
mirror. Sand, sun-baked to glass. Black sheen of feather. Yellow iris.
Is that a mimic, Crow? Is that a honed wing, or bundle of letters?
Outside the window the world is dizzy. Clouds roil and flower. The sky
breaks apart. Nine distinct sections. The window. There
it is, Crow.
Sean Lovelace writes and reads and publishes flash fiction. He teaches
writing at Ball State University, a pretty great place.
That's about it.