blackbird by Gina Frisken

I stare out the window thinking of how to tackle this story. The clouds are high in the sky and the easterly wind barely rustles the trees.

 

My armchair feels comfortable and the laptop screen is reluctantly absorbing the words. A black shape catches my attention. I look out and a raven lands on the Graveyard Cypress outside my window. 

 

Do I use the victims’ real names? Doesn’t Rabe mean raven in German?

 

I frown as I write: Klaus woke up and left Heike's side. He walked to the ...

 

The raven is still perched.  Why is it here? The stillness of the day and the cold air make me reach for the throw lying on the armchair.

 

I read: SYDNEY, Thursday. - A German migrant, his wife and their twin baby sons were found shot dead in a house at Five Ways early to-day.

 

On the laptop I continue to stare at the fifty-year-old article. No author. I turn towards the window and now instead of the one raven there are seven others. One flies towards me and perches on another cypress, and it caws.

 

No one will believe me.