THE UNSCARED CROW
Cody Nowack
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I lined my wings with the nightmare, its heavy, thick scent tickling my feathers. I could almost pump it into my hollow bones.
Almost.
As a crow, an unscared one, I had to chase the darkest of aromas and ride the filthiest of stinks. More often than not, they led me to who I needed to see––to scarecrows. Say what you will about those tattered bastards, but if anyone had the means to straighten an unscared crow, if anyone could spoon-feed us a healthy dose of fear––the main ingredient needed for a bird’s longevity––it’d be those cornfield dwellers.
Don’t believe me?
Try and keep up.
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Wings outstretched, the sun cooking my feathers, I slowed as a field of green flecked with gold came into view. The stalks wavered in the wind, swishing,
