Cover
by Sam Hacking
‘Crick.’ ‘Crack’ stamped his beak on the rock, the water swelled beneath him as he cast a beady eye. Slippery purple, cold pebbles hoisted up in frothy spit as the Sea mumbled
long and low.
“What are you doing there, Crow? That’s no safe place for feathered wing.”
Crow hopped to another boulder, rattled nails and claw, ‘a-rat-a-tat-tat’, glossy black, parted wing and tilted head.
“Never you mind sea, there’s rich pickings here. Fat worm and fallen gull chick, their loose eyes roll like marbles out of reach.”
Sea smiled and threw wet fingers out to catch him, but Crow jumped, opened wings like bat, clawed up and away.
“Lemme be, lemme be,” he cawed. “Sun is setting and cold bloom is rolling in across your back, I need to get home and away before the end of day.”
Sea muttered, pushing velvet mouth down under the cove, it sighed into trickling pools and gave up, evaporating on salted beach. Crow hopped this way and that, raised tail
and open eyes, beak bore here and there, shuffling leather feet gripped and ruined.
Sun sank and Crow took breath, shot black and bolted a dagger into sky. Land was calm, sheep lay low. Crow breathed it all, the soft scratches in the hedgerows, the fluff of
clouds pinned above him. Cows bellowed at the oncoming eve and a frost sprang and sparkled over blunted leaves and turning green of field.
He flew between light. Wings looped on evening’s beam. Stillness fell under and over, feathers stirred and were silenced. A couple of pushes, gliding low and sweeping to tree,
standing bent, tall. The mouth of home yawned, dark and warm, smelling of rot and life. Folded in and gripping branch, Crow alighted. Woodlands behind ached and
rumbled, twisting, turning roots and bark, rising up and clawing down, the hills’ damp back shivered.
She was sleeping, head under wing, heat spread over moss and nest spitting up out of the hole. Crow gulped air rapidly, cast beady eye and hopped down beside her.
The last threads of dusk were chased from sky by blanket of night, land pinned down, tucked up, a final cough and splutter, soiling sky with white flecks of earthy spit. The
birds lay dormant, hiding, shivering warmth within the land’s flanks. Darkness ran chuckling around them, poking fingers, casting and catching, throwing up and digging
deep. The shadows lay down and stretched.
Owl watched, head swinging pendulum. Eyes yellow, wide, closed stinging beak and bite. Claws into branch, high over the fields, a rock set to drop, to topple, to crush. She
listened to it all. The leaves turned, grass blades bent, soil shook, trees creaked. The Sea moved at distance, wind swept fast then slow.
Owl rose, a silence between heart beats. A tear slipping across sky’s cheek, she flew over field and searched for noise, ‘Scratch, furrow, scratch scratch, furrow.’ Blades of wheat
bent under hot wing and outstretched claws grabbed. Shrieking, surprised, the mouse life ended. Owl tore into throat and was satisfied.
In nest, a hidden pearl, Crow listened to it all, his impulse to fly crushed by his body’s burnout, black feathers lay a thousand ships lost in shadowed sea.
After long hooded blink and flick of night, dawn broke. Orange picked over feathers, tore across gloom and swept up shadows into corners. Night slank away, ink blots into
cracks and was silenced. Birds across the woodland began their unanimous shrieking and Crow clapped wings and took flight.
His body sought for food through wing beat and slit eyes, his body sought for food for nest and mate. The Sea had always laughed at him and the trees, well, what do they
know? Fixed, flexing muscles of a present dust, they envied his wing and swing, for in the sky the Sun always warmed him and would never sear him down.
Crow flew on and in the nest she turned softly. Her beak picked his fallen feathers, weaving them around the eggs. Tender nursing, tender touch, she settled spent womb upon
blue shells, and puny heartbeats waited.
long and low.
“What are you doing there, Crow? That’s no safe place for feathered wing.”
Crow hopped to another boulder, rattled nails and claw, ‘a-rat-a-tat-tat’, glossy black, parted wing and tilted head.
“Never you mind sea, there’s rich pickings here. Fat worm and fallen gull chick, their loose eyes roll like marbles out of reach.”
Sea smiled and threw wet fingers out to catch him, but Crow jumped, opened wings like bat, clawed up and away.
“Lemme be, lemme be,” he cawed. “Sun is setting and cold bloom is rolling in across your back, I need to get home and away before the end of day.”
Sea muttered, pushing velvet mouth down under the cove, it sighed into trickling pools and gave up, evaporating on salted beach. Crow hopped this way and that, raised tail
and open eyes, beak bore here and there, shuffling leather feet gripped and ruined.
Sun sank and Crow took breath, shot black and bolted a dagger into sky. Land was calm, sheep lay low. Crow breathed it all, the soft scratches in the hedgerows, the fluff of
clouds pinned above him. Cows bellowed at the oncoming eve and a frost sprang and sparkled over blunted leaves and turning green of field.
He flew between light. Wings looped on evening’s beam. Stillness fell under and over, feathers stirred and were silenced. A couple of pushes, gliding low and sweeping to tree,
standing bent, tall. The mouth of home yawned, dark and warm, smelling of rot and life. Folded in and gripping branch, Crow alighted. Woodlands behind ached and
rumbled, twisting, turning roots and bark, rising up and clawing down, the hills’ damp back shivered.
She was sleeping, head under wing, heat spread over moss and nest spitting up out of the hole. Crow gulped air rapidly, cast beady eye and hopped down beside her.
The last threads of dusk were chased from sky by blanket of night, land pinned down, tucked up, a final cough and splutter, soiling sky with white flecks of earthy spit. The
birds lay dormant, hiding, shivering warmth within the land’s flanks. Darkness ran chuckling around them, poking fingers, casting and catching, throwing up and digging
deep. The shadows lay down and stretched.
Owl watched, head swinging pendulum. Eyes yellow, wide, closed stinging beak and bite. Claws into branch, high over the fields, a rock set to drop, to topple, to crush. She
listened to it all. The leaves turned, grass blades bent, soil shook, trees creaked. The Sea moved at distance, wind swept fast then slow.
Owl rose, a silence between heart beats. A tear slipping across sky’s cheek, she flew over field and searched for noise, ‘Scratch, furrow, scratch scratch, furrow.’ Blades of wheat
bent under hot wing and outstretched claws grabbed. Shrieking, surprised, the mouse life ended. Owl tore into throat and was satisfied.
In nest, a hidden pearl, Crow listened to it all, his impulse to fly crushed by his body’s burnout, black feathers lay a thousand ships lost in shadowed sea.
After long hooded blink and flick of night, dawn broke. Orange picked over feathers, tore across gloom and swept up shadows into corners. Night slank away, ink blots into
cracks and was silenced. Birds across the woodland began their unanimous shrieking and Crow clapped wings and took flight.
His body sought for food through wing beat and slit eyes, his body sought for food for nest and mate. The Sea had always laughed at him and the trees, well, what do they
know? Fixed, flexing muscles of a present dust, they envied his wing and swing, for in the sky the Sun always warmed him and would never sear him down.
Crow flew on and in the nest she turned softly. Her beak picked his fallen feathers, weaving them around the eggs. Tender nursing, tender touch, she settled spent womb upon
blue shells, and puny heartbeats waited.
Sam Hacking is an artist and writer living in East London. Her recent work has appeared in Funhouse and Potluck Magazine. She runs an event called The Shag in London, which is a platform for performers and writers to showcase experimental material. She studied at the The Slade School of Fine Art, and was selected for the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition in 2015. She is currently working on a short story collection and a play.