The little girl loved crows. She would take her unfinished meal and stand in the courtyard waiting for the crows that never came. Perhaps it was because they were leftovers. She took her plate filled with untouched food and waited. The crows never came. Could it be that they didn’t like what was on the plate? She added sprinkles to her custard and stood outside the house. No crows.
The little girl stood on the rooftop and looked around. There were none. She called to the crows. They never came. She peered as far as her eyes could see. Past the transformers who looked like stick men with their hands outstretched. She couldn’t see any. They obviously couldn’t hear her. She got up the next day and stood on the rooftop and yelled. Yelled as much as her little lungs would let her. None. Could it be that they didn’t like what she was yelling? That day she wrote a song for the crows. She made sure it rhymed. The next day she sang the song with as much intent as she could muster. No luck.
The little girl looked at the mirror and she looked at her pale skin. It was so clear. She looked nothing like the crows. She took her black bedspread and covered herself with it and stood outside hoping they would come. There was not a crow around. She filled her bath and emptied her mother’s mascara in it. She jumped in the pool of black and ran to the roof. Where were all these crows? Now she was really sad. And to add to things, she was wet and cold.
And then she slipped. And soon the crows came.
