Tristan Robert Lange

murder

the black mass was astounding, spellbinding, and mesmerizing as it took up what seemed to be at least ten to twelve feet. but there was something off about this particular shadow that was rippling and shifting like an inky oil spill that was glimmering in the bright, dazzling sunlight on a brisk, autumn day.

the closer the vantage point the more this mass grew into what appeared like a weird tarp, weaved with obsidian strands that seemed to pulse, shift, and even lift up as if an unseen force was pulling it upward into flight. the sound was that of a hissing rain pattering on dry leaves, the sound producing the sharpest chills within.

advancing closer it became even more noticeable that this was no tarp, but a rather large flock of black birds that immediately began to caw. this was no flock, but a murder of ravenous crows pecking and tearing the ruined rotting flesh of some ungodly large beast that, at this point, looked like a grotesque mix of midnight, chewed leather, ground meat, sun-dried ribs, and entrails;

the black bear the latest fatality on death’s hellish highway, providing carrion life to those who thrive on mortality.