Crow of No Goodbyes
Sean Lovelace

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.

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Photo detail on main page courtesy of Jonathan Coffey.

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