Ishani Ray

Imbroglio

A flurry of feathers broke the quiet of the overcast day, followed by a secure thud. Wounded leaves fluttered to the ground like butterflies anticipating wasps. Fifty years have perished since he became what he is. Fifty years since the grandfather’s clock consummated its countdown, on that queer evening that juxtaposed sultriness against cold autumnal front, and bequeathed the bars of misfortune on him. Perched on white oak, the defiant white crow pirouetted, as if in front of a mirror, observing its elongating and shortening shadows, barely discernible like its existence. Everyday since then, he had combated the unforgiving knowledge mauling at him like it was scratching the face off a photograph.