not walking under the ladder

One hand around her belly, as if it could ward away the bad luck she believed the crow would bring, and she swiped in the air again. Missed. So close this time too. For a third time, she did not see the droplets of blood, flowing eerily under the light of the sun, filtered in through the blinds of her window.

“Shoo” the crow cackled and perched atop a china jug. She wasn’t dumb enough to hit it with the broom on top of her china.

It made another sound that sounded an awful lot like it was laughing as it unfolded its wings and took flight, the China toppling underneath it. She barely caught it before it hit the floor. Sunlight streamed in through the window. Her kettle whistled shrilly. She swung the broom through the air. It hit the wall, a dent, some thistles falling off it. The crow escaped. What a wily creature. A vicious smile formed on her face as she saw the splatter of blood left behind. It faded as she saw its black body, free of any blood, and not dropping any either. Another swipe. A larger puddle. The crow, seemingly untouched flew out the window, chattering.

She collapsed on the ground, eyes darting around. She saw the first three puddles, the ones she had not seen before. There were five in all. So much blood. She put her hands around her belly protectively. Her baby would survive.

***

This was the last one. He wiped away the grime from his eyes, brushed away the sweat from his forehead. This was the last one. He had his letter. This was just one last sortie. One last time to knock out some of the enemy, shoot them down like the ducks they were. Icing on top of the cake. Then home to his wife. He imagined looking in her almond brown eyes, brushing her hair that flowed brown and auburn in the light, and other was pitch black. Brushing it behind her ears. Hugging her and lifting her all around. Hearing that girlish giggle she made. He imagined it all and sighed large sighs of relief.

“You okay there, buddy? Looks like you’re in a different world.” A firm hand on his back. His commanding officer behind the hand. “Just thinking about home, sir.” “Think about home when you get there. Gotta make sure you get home, right?” “Yes sir.” The man was already walking away, checking on his other troops. He took a deep breath in, and closed his eyes. He could hear the heartbeat of the ground, could smell the tension in the air, could feel the grime caked under his fingernails, the crimson liquid that would be shed with each burst of gunfire, each sortie, the shouts, orders, and commands. The sweat, the exhilaration. He waited for the signal. A shadow passed over the sun. He looked up, but it was there, bright as ever. He heard a caw. Carrion birds circling above. They would have a feast tonight. Heart thumping. The horn. He drew out. One last sortie. And then he’d be back home. One, two, three, four, five. That was how many bullets punctured his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. A smile on his face. His last thoughts of his family.