The Executioners Bird
May 20th, 2026
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An iridescent crow is perched.
The fence, a row of rotted bone-like ribs, the grain split within weathered nails.
Beak like a corroded hook, but remained as silent as a church.
The kind of hook that drags your attention where you should not look.
Its eyes chiseled obsidian,
seemed to swallow light itself.
Talons rusted and barbed as it adjusted its weight in a deliberate lurch, my fate already chosen.
Each breath a gutteral–gravelly rattle,
as it cocked its head with skeletal precision.
Behind it, the forest stood motionless, but seemed to communicate with the crow– a quiet discussion.
The dark oak trees towering with its branches woven together like wire stitched across a mouth.
I tried entering once– forget to ask
and the trees bent, paths folded, roots stretching into open alleys.
As if trying to trap me somewhere beneath the tree canopies and valleys.
So I waited for the crow. It arrived at midnight, as always.
It's talons making a hollow scratch against the fence as it hopped.
Hopped once.
Hopped twice.
Making decisions,
Rolling the dice.
–and somehow the forest knew
It opened with a rustle and a groan, as if it had not opened in decades.
Every trunk held marks– deep gashes in the bark.
That almost resembled prayers, or warnings etched with shuddering hands and blades.
The crow saw it before I did.
The cabin.
It stood crooked at the cliffs edge,
As if it clawed its way through the soil to rot and die.
The foundation skidded slightly towards the sea, as if the sea was calling it in with echoing sighs.
Or the earth itself was trying to shove it off in fear.
The sea below thrashed against the jagged rocks.
A pounding echo that seemed to silence even-my-own breath.
Its windows were dark, but not vacant,
The kind of dark that feels occupied.
Rot and moss clawed up the walls in long, black veins.
Declaring it's alive, and explaining death.
A lantern swung by the door.
Still wheezing side to side, as if someone just entered moments before.
The chimney breathed thick plumes of smoke into the dusk with no firelight to follow.
I should have turned back, once I saw my tracks erased behind me– once my breath felt hollow.
The crow sat on the lantern, its head tilted, dilated eyes studying my every movement.
It was waiting, as if it was giving me the knowledge I had approvment.
The splintered door cracked open to the darkness inside.
The crow cried, one last time.
Green eyes peered around the doorframe, Seeming to ask my name.
The crow did not warn me now– just sat and glared, giving a dare.
It waited for me to enter, it knew I would have to venture.
The way an executioner waits by the gallows.
© 2026 Olivia Williams