Collections of Embellished Fictions, Philosophies, and Poetry

Mr. Beckwith's Crows

July 5. 2020.

Mr. Beckwith was a kind old man. Never was he rude, never did he raise his voice. Everyone in the tiny little town loved him, how could they not? The widower's generosity charmed all who met him.

Mr. Beckwith lived in a rickety old  house on the end of the lane. With a tall, spiny gate and intimidating blackwood walls, nobody would have guessed kind, modest Beckwith would reside there. When they visited him, however, they found it suited him greatly, for the interior was so homely and reassuring, the rosebushes smiling upon all who passed by. Such a lovely house, such a lovely man.

As time went by the quiet town went quieter. Many forgot their duties to each other in favour of recreational pleasure. Smoke began to rise from browning lips, citizens went missing for days only to return with their minds totally gone. The children played with one another, but such gruesome and gory games they played! With knives and hunting rifles they stole from their mothers and fathers, they chased one another and squealed in glee when a shot was fired, regardless of who it hit. Beckwith did not approve, why would he? He resigned himself to his home, vowing never to appear in public for any purpose pertaining to having a "jolly old time". Only in his backyard he resided, under grey and stormy skies.

Blackbirds and ravens came and went to him only, they gifted Mr. Beckwith with shiny jewels and little toys. How he loved his birds! The crows bathed in the stone garden fountain he bought, and he delighted in seeing their thick black plumage shimmer in the sky's light. His birds loved the man dearly, for he was so kind to them. They were his friends in a world where his neighbours loved to kill.

The roses withered but never died, and so he brought them to his sanctuary. The ravens detested them, they were far too sharp. The crows played among the flowers however, mocking the ravens, and some chewed the petals in a loving gesture. Mr. Beckwith chuckled when one of them swallowed a blackened leaf. "You silly little prat. Are you cursed now, to die without a love?" The crow only perched upon his arm and nipped his jumper. The man pet it in return.

There is no story for him. Mr. Beckwith was nobody special. When he died, the crows dug a grave with their beaks under the breaking stone fountain. The ravens pushed him in, and the blackbirds filled the hole with the upturned soil. With a withered rose over it, he was laid down to rest.

One of Beckwith's caretakers, Vera, had been fired long ago. She hadn't noticed, and never returned to his home. She lived alone, for her reputation was tarnished for an accidental murder of her family. The town was deathly afraid of her capabilities. As she picked up groceries to deliver to her disabled neighbour, Mrs. Sutherland, she noticed the dark manor at the end of the lane, dark with birds watching her. "Hello? Can I come in?" she asked, knocking Mrs. Sutherland's door. No one answered, and in a fit of anger she could not recall, the door was kicked in and she stepped inside. She stared blankly at the naked corpse in front of her, eyes gone and genitalia ripped off. The blood pooling beneath the old woman reached Vera's feet and she stomped on it as if spiders were crawling up her legs. She stomped and stomped until the birch wood beneath her feet snapped. It was an episode worse than when she murdered her kin, her pupils small, screaming silently. She fell, large splinters scraping and stabbing into her stomach, and she died there, alone. No one found them, and if they did they would see a rifle on Mrs. Sutherland's chair and crow feathers littering the floor.

Mr. Beckwith's crows did him a service in cleansing his house and home. They blessed his homeland with the blood of sinners and their evil eyes. Mr. Beckwith did not approve, but he loved his birds so, and they loved him.