CROWS IN THE CIRCUS
They say it was at that second; something changed in the boy. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He waded and pushed his hands through the soil, shrugging them close to his torso as he went up. As he reached his mother’s face, the blood from his own cheeks rubbed off onto the back of his palm. He colored his fingers with his black syrupy blood, and he pinched the edges of his dead mother’s lips.
His torn cheeks moved slightly, and he felt the dirt fall inside his mouth.