Seeing Crows

by Matthew Miles

  “Duke – Besse’s dead,” I told him. In advance. “She killed herself in the garage.”

  There was a long silence. But this silence wasn’t new to me.

  “Goddamnit, boy,” Duke gasped, and I heard a sob wrack his diseased throat. I heard his lips crack, and saliva retreat from his mouth. “There’s something in the air around here,” he whimpered, scared, angry, confused, defeated. “Something really stinks.”

  “I’m sorry, Duke,” I said.

  “We’re all just breathing it in, boy, just breathing it in,” he whispered, more than just a hint of terror and loss in his voice.

  Our lives, right then and there, were little more than a direct descent to the grave, a great feast for crows. Everything turns its mouth back upon itself. In the end, there is no other meal. There is no other feast for ourselves, but ourselves.

  I saw lights flashing on the street outside the house, the red-and-blue fireworks heralding the police.

  Maybe it was too late. I didn’t know what crime they were here for; I didn’t know how to meet them, I didn’t know what to do.

  I picked Elle’s corpse up, hoped they wouldn’t be able to tell she was dead already if this came down to some kind of stand-off or shoot-out. I pointed the pistol to her temple, hugging her curled corpse to me, and dragged her down the hallway, inching my way backwards toward the back door and pushing it open with my ass. One thing I knew for sure. I was walking out of here right now if I could., even if it was only to live long enough to make sure I got Besse back for fucking my whole life up.

  Life was all about these kinds of choices.

  Fight or flight.

  To be or not to be.

  To have, to have not.

  To know.

  To choose.

  In the end, only these things matter. The rest was just for the birds, and that wasn’t going to be the end of me, some vulture’s meal, some slave, some victim to some murder of crows.

  ####

  About the Author

  I am the author of Seeing Crows and my second novel, Twitch of the Death Camp. I have written fiction since I learned my first letters, and even managed to obtain my poetic license - degrees in Writing and Communication. My early endeavors wove tales of ninjas and cowboys - and pages of loose leaf paper together with a good yarn, literally and figuratively. Now more fascinated with criminals than cowboys, I have several projects in the works, including The Heart of the American Darkness - a companion to Seeing Crows, as well as novels titled Crook and Spook House. Besides writing, I collect old and new music on vinyl records, vintage guitars and instruments, and record music in my home studio. I can be reached by email at aristocrat1948@live.com, and welcome well-meaning comments and inquiries. You can also find me on Facebook. And more than anything, I appreciate you reading my book and hope you enjoyed it.

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  If you enjoyed Seeing Crows, please check out my other novel, also available on Amazon for the Kindle:

  Twitch of the Death Camp

  Twitch of the Death Camp is the lurid tale of an aspiring horror writer who leaves New York City in the wake of 9/11 to attend a writing camp in upstate New York, only to find himself once again surrounded by unspeakable violence. Lonely from the virtual isolation of life in the city, he is flattered by the advances of an old classmate. As her attraction betrays an unhealthy obsession, mysterious deaths disturb the peace at the camp. As the bodies pile up and terror erupts, he suspects he is being targeted, or framed - learning he is part of a darker, more complicated history than he realized. Barely surviving with his own life, he flees the camp, making a horrible choice while escaping. On the run from the police and the killer, he follows clues south to New Orleans with the help of a hippie, a Wiccan and a Satanist, determined to solve the mystery and absolve his own guilt – an odyssey that forces him to confront what it’s like to live in a world ruled by fear, unknown enemies and misdirected revenge.

  Praise for Twitch of the Death Camp from Amazon Reader:

  “I stumbled on this book purely by accident but was grabbed by the title of all things, finding it reminiscent of the Mario Bava film I'm sure it took its inspiration from. I'm a big horror movie buff and nothing gets me like a summer camp horror story ala "Friday the 13th" and "The Burning", so after reading the plot description I didn't hesitate to purchase it. I'm very glad I did. The book is constructed into two parts, the first being your typical slasher movie fare and the second a thrilling road adventure. I enjoyed both equally. The author manages to hone in on some pretty interesting ideas regarding the whole creative process, human psychology, and even politics, all through the mouths of some pretty interesting characters that I actually found myself growing attached to. The twists and turns in the story kept me reading for hours on end, which is the sign of any good novel. I particularly enjoyed the way the author could set up scenes with an almost theatrical element to them--like they were just made for a good suspense/horror movie. The whole book had me turning page after page trying to piece it all together much like the main character. I highly recommend this to any fan of suspense/mystery stories and to good old-fashioned horror readers. There's a little bit of something here for all of you. I eagerly await the writer's next installment.”

  “This novel starts as a campy 70's horror novel, a real blood fest with all the teenage clichés. People dying left and right while kids get stoned and hook up. Then the novel takes a turn into the classic 3 day journey style novel where the main character, Jones, is on the run, while trying to figure out "who done it". On the way he is forced to look at himself and ask what kind of person he really is and what it is he is really after. A modern day Holden Caulfield. I highly recommend this.”

  Excerpt from “Twitch of the Death Camp”

  The woods were eerily silent compared to the City. The rustle of a leaf here, perhaps, the scampering of a squirrel there, but in the torturous, thick humidity that heralds August in the north country, very few things, sentient or not, cared to move much.

  The woods were eerily silent compared to the City. The rustle of a leaf here, perhaps, the scampering of a squirrel there, but in the torturous, thick humidity that heralds August in the north country, very few things, sentient or not, cared to move much.

  I relaxed, taking a break from unpacking, a Steal Your Face T-shirt dangling from my right hand, resisting the temptation to wipe away the blanket of sweat growing on my forehead with it. I allowed myself forget the heat, to breathe in the tranquility of the moment, and exorcise the horrors of the city from my mind. Odd as it sounded, I felt a twitch of regret at abandoning New York, even if only for a short spell to work at the camp. Its impenetrable concrete culture had offered so little up to me in reality, but the community, the sense of shared suffering that sprung up in the wake of September 11th, had almost made me feel like I was actually part of something.

  The confusion, the guilt of taking comfort in this tragedy, unsettled me, and some of my own actions in those hours, not only after, but before even, too, haunted me still, almost a year later. It was already proving harder to escape my conflicted feelings outside the solidarity, and the distraction, of the city’s bustling streets. It was so still here that the demons rose with the sweltering heat. So still that when a shadow appeared in the window of my cabin, my heart skipped a beat, my whole body trembled for a moment in fear.

  “Hello?” a voice said through the open cabin window, carried in on a gentle Adirondack breeze, the first I had felt since arriving. It was a woman’s voice - youthful and friendly, certainly nothing to be so scared by.

  I squinted against the sunlight streaming through the window screen and was greeted by a tiny face with perky eyes, by waves of curly, sandy hair tumbling around narrow cheeks and a pretty, welcoming smile. Perspiration, beading on my forehead, rolled around the caves of my eyes as I tried to offer up a similar smile of my own.

  Perhaps because of the notoriety of its winter, the oppressive heat of the New York summer is easily
forgotten - that its temperatures pound their way into the high nineties, that humidity builds like a steam bath and saps all my motivation, until even the frigid winter seems only like a relief.

  “Wow, the view just keeps getting better here,” I said, not hesitating to throw out a compliment, mustering up some charm.

  I was out of practice, for sure.

  She was cute, a couple of freckles, a little upturned nose, though it was her friendly smile that really stood out. “I’m glad you like it,” she said, tilting her head and accepting the compliment. “Since we’re neighbors - our windows are practically staring at each other.”

  I winced. Another beautiful neighbor. As though the plot threads of our lives continue to play themselves out no matter what. Settings change, characters shift, but themes resurface.

  Funny, though, that the climaxes and resolutions elude us at almost the same rate.

  I left New York City in the wake of a tragedy. But the impulse to leave was as much the story of a neighbor as it was the attack. Not that they weren’t intertwined.

  Lightning can strike twice.

  I don’t believe in fate.

  Which is how I know you can’t fight it.

  I lifted a towel from the pile of clothes on my bed and mopped my face with it, leaving a Shroud of Turin-like stain of sweat on it.

  “Then I suppose I should be neighborly and invite you in?” I asked, untucking my plaid shirt, trying not to look like a sweaty nerd in heat. But my hair was wet from the humidity and clinging to the front and sides of my head, my shirt was soaking up the sweat from my chest and armpits. I pulled a stack of clean T-shirts out of my bag and tossed them onto the mattress, the classic Che Guevara staring at me from the top of the pile.

  I didn’t own a Che Guevara T-shirt because he was iconic; I owned it because the shirt was iconic.

  The T-shirt is the great American uniform for collegiate and recent grads alike. Our choice of T-shirt can sum up the person we are. I prided myself on an extensive collection; I provided them immaculate care. I mourned their passing. I never forgot one I had owned. But I didn’t wear any particular one because of what I wanted it to say about me; I wore them because of what they said about all of us.

  “You can throw your clothes on the bed next to mine if you want,” I suggested, grinning at my own weak come-on as she came in.

  She laughed, generously appreciating the joke. It was good to be out of the city, where the initial joy of being anonymous had quickly faded to the loneliness of being invisible. Where the one significant connection I had made ended in the nation’s greatest tragedy.

  “I’m Charlie,” she said, sticking a hand out toward me. Even that little bit of motion was enough to move the still, heavy air in the cabin, a damp wave rippling sluggishly through the room.

  I shuffled over to shake her hand, conscious of the sweat pooling on my palms. “I’m Jones.”

  “Welcome to Writing Camp, Jones,” Charlie said with her winning smile.

  It was good to be here, to meet her, to be in a small, isolated world, far from the indifferent chaos of the lower east side, far from where it took an act of unspeakable violence to shake people out of their apathetic disregard of each other. Where someone would do something as simple as introduce themselves.

  “It’s hot as hell here,” I answered, shrugging by way of apology, as she glanced down at her own, now sweaty, palm - a little reminder, I guess, that when people touch each other, real things happen.

  *2*

  I stopped on the narrow trail leading me from my cabin toward the camp center, pausing as I recognized a voice resounding from the clearing a little way ahead. The well-worn dirt path led out to the camp’s main lodge and a big lawn surrounding it, where people were now gathering. Other trails led to guest cabins and to the beach by the lake, as well as some nature paths that wound their way through the woods around all of the buildings. The shade of the trees, their branches tangled over my head, provided some slight respite from the sun, but little to break the dank humidity in the air.

  The writing camp was sponsored by my alma mater from just a couple of years back, St. Bonafide, a tiny liberal arts college out in vast northern New York, itself only a little less remote than this camp. I had arrived that morning for a three-week stint as a counselor thanks to Dr. Phillips, a professor of mine I had stayed in touch with since graduating.

  I’d been one of his promising students in my college years, managing to scratch out some decent short stories between bong hits and keg parties. The retreat was attended by some high school kids, a recruitment opportunity for the university to attract students to its program. Phillips offered me a summer job as a counselor and event coordinator; he knew I wasn’t working, probably sensed I needed to get out of the city.

  Phillips had always looked out for me when I was a student; when I got in trouble with one of the professors, I was sure he had fought to keep me from being expelled.

  This was a chance to network with the faculty again, and the guest writers, to keep me interested in writing, he’d suggested. For me, though, it was a chance to be in a place where I wasn’t just another nameless face, where I could maybe stand out again, be recognized, maybe relive the excitement of my college days.

  Get laid.

  I moved to New York City after I graduated with dreams of being a writer, maybe breaking into the publishing industry, working at some prestigious fiction house. Instead I was temping, riding the subway from my fish tank apartment to whatever nameless business needed someone who could type seventy error-free words a minute.

  My college days looked in retrospect to have been a great and golden paradise, of good times and friends and, especially, girls – recently liberated girls, newly experimenting girls– a bounty of horny girls that stood in stark contrast to the famine of even mere acquaintances that characterized my life now.

  “Oh, Jesus, if that doesn’t look like Jones, I’ll be damned,” a boisterous voice announced ahead of me, toward the lawn at the end of the path, way louder than was needed to get my attention.

  It wasn’t hard to place the voice, even though I couldn’t see the man behind it yet, because usually whenever I was around that voice, it was all anyone could hear.

  “Winewright,” I muttered as I emerged from the brush of the trail. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  I was greeted with a huge smile and an enthusiastic man hug. “Hey ladies, this is my old buddy - and nemesis - Jones,” Winewright announced, introducing me to the two women with him, though I was already familiar with their faces. “Jones, this is Marianne,” Winewright said, pointing to the athletic, pony-tailed student next to him. “And this is Dalia,” he added, bowing slightly toward a raven-haired beauty in a John Lennon-style New York City T-shirt tied at its bottom around her stomach. Classic. The hem of a lacy black undershirt beneath it – a signature of Dalia’s fashion sense, I recalled.

  I had used to own a T-shirt just like that one, but lost it during my college years. Those were some wild times. Things got lost. I missed the shirt, even though I had stopped wearing it. It had gotten a blood stain on the back of it from a buddy with a cut hand at a concert, and I retired it to a dresser drawer, unable to part with it.

  I knew Marianne and Dalia already, even if not that well. They were both freshmen during my senior year. When St. Bonafide called itself exclusive, it meant tiny; it cost so much to go there, few did. No one had much need to pay an Ivy League tuition for a liberal arts college education. The students came from wealthy families, paying the whole shot without thinking about it so they could believe their kids were at an esteemed bastion of learning, even though its main requirement for entry was the ability to fork over the dough. Not that it wasn’t a good university – hell, it had a ton of money – it was a great university. It had enough money to let me attend for free, as a matter of fact.

  “Jones graduated from Bonafide the same year I did,” Winewright continued to spout, as though they weren’t
perfectly aware of this already.

  I watched Marianne roll her eyes and shake her head while Dalia just gave me a crooked smile. They didn’t seem to be as enamored with Winewright as he was with himself. That made three of us.

  The city was suddenly feeling a long ways away from me.

  “He was the editor on the Broadside our senior year. Against my protests,” he laughed, but without joy. That fake laugh was the first sincere thing I’d heard come out of him since I’d arrived.

  “Dale, we know,” Marianne cut in. “We were all in the writing program at Bonafide.” I remembered Marianne, seeing her usually scuttling her busy body around campus, in this group and on that board and part of this team and doing some event. I didn’t have much interaction with her, my extracurricular activities generally not being so well-intentioned.

  “Did you know that Jones was in New York City last year?” he added. “On 9/11.”

  Winewright delivered the information with some gravitas, but it was annoying, and awkward. I didn’t want to talk about that. He always wanted to be the center of attention. Even when seeming to deflect it toward others, it was only to make sure he was commanding it.

  “You had a story published, didn’t you?” Dalia asked.

  And that is what I really didn’t want to talk about.

  I didn’t want to have this conversation right now, the whole New York thing. None of it was good. Especially the story. To be a writer but to have to squirm with shame over your only published work was painful, and depressing.

  I just nodded tersely, but gave her a warm smile. “Not my best work.”

  Dalia was a quiet girl from the writing program, kind of withdrawn, but hard to forget because of her striking good looks. I hoped she had started to come out of her shell, knowing she had a darker side to her that her seeming shyness hid. I remembered her from a southern gothic short story she had submitted to The Broadside when I was the editor, full of sorcery and sex and murder. It was bold - graphic. Even though I had barely known her, she was one of those people who seemed instantly familiar to me, alluring, though I never really made an effort to befriend her. I didn’t try hard at too much in college; I didn’t have to.