When the board arrived, Jimmy was strapped
to it and carried out of the dining hall. His head
writhed and thrashed as he hollered and spat
gibberish laced with bird calls and obscenities.
The sinews of his neck bulged, and his face was
reddish purple.
It wasn’t until later that they found out his
mother had actually died. His father called minutes after they had injected Jimmy with a PRN
and placed him in isolation.
Jimmy was not stable enough to attend the
wake or funeral. Nobody in attendance seemed
to notice that two crows, one large and one small,
had perched on Jimmy’s mother’s headstone while
the eulogy was read. The birds flew away as soon
as they began lowering the casket into the earth.
Jimmy’s four-year-old cousin Samantha pointed at
them with a stubby finger.
“Mama, the big birdies flew away.”
“Yes, dear, those were crows.”
“Crows. They’re ugly. I don’t like ‘em one bit.”
Brett
Petersen has devoted his life to writing
because
he derives utmost joy from sharing his
imagination with the world. Since graduating
from the College of Saint Rose with a B.A. in
English in 2011, his fictions have appeared in
journals such as Loud Zoo, Peculiar Mormyrid,
Centrifuge and Polychrome Ink. Other passions
of his include playing drums in the band BlanSlate and working as a Creative Consultant for
Mushroom Studios, an art and souvenir company. He has lived in Albany NY for most of his
life.