This is an outstanding piece of mythology-based fiction, centered around one of the many myths of crows. Crows just happen to be my self-declared Spirit Animal, not to mention they are an integral piece of the thematic and symbolic origins of a writing idea I am trying to develop.
What I am saying is, crows are hella meaningful, they consistently display traits of bad-assery, and this piece of writing based on my feathered friends is a pleasure to read. Ca-caw!
“Crows,” Gertruida said as they listened to the squawking outside, “are most intelligent. They can manufacture and use tools, but they prefer living in areas where they can feed on refuse and garbage and food they didn’t have to work for. Most of them gang together in groups and scavenge for a living.”
“I don’t like crows,” Precilla wrinkles her nose. “On Kleinpiet’s farm they have taken to catching tortoises. They spy a small one, and they’ll grab it with their claws and lift it high above the ground. Then they’ll look for a suitable rock and dash it to death – and then feed on the corpse. They always target the weak and defenceless. Quite disgusting. Maybe that’s why the collective term for these birds is a murder of crows…”
“Ah yes…and there’s a story the Bushmen tell,” Gertruida rejoins, “about the way crows are the messengers…
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