Victoria Ann Carr Wins Flash Fiction Challenge

Not only could I see the inky, black silhouette of the raven, but also I hear his portentous cries across the baleful, indigo sky! A pertinacious orator, jetty black plumage, a powerful wingspread, with a heedful warning. Raven he’ll be cryin’, when the Mockers come a knockin’, for silently they tread! Never leave the infirmed or dying alone, endangered in their beds! At least that is what I was taught by the old shaman who lived deep in the woods. As the others celebrate unaware—I remain an obscurantist, well versed in these ancient teachings. Crass materialism has brought a plague of gross ignorance to matters of spiritual warfare.

Evil was lurking—concealed from the revelers’ sight. I began to sense the approach once cued by the Raven’s cry to battle. Vitality is what they steal—dark enemies to the warriors of light— I am a warrior of light! Invisible—these black-hearted shamans—sneak inside, and without a single mark, they kill and then cut out their victim’s heart. Feasting upon it, they add years to their life—perpetuating this perilous dark medicine!

The raven’s ocular organs were sharply focusing ahead. There an ailing elder was inside, left unattended in his bed. Slinking away from the celebration, I must go immediately to retrieve my medicine bag and prepare for the spiritual vigil and the confrontation to come. Glancing back at the conviviality, I think, Respect and heed the Raven’s portent cry! Evil-doers, the Raven Mockers may be dropping by!