February 4th: Strange romance
A Crow’s Feast
, by Gary Hewitt

Her prey wiped a stream of sweat from his forehead. His biceps rippled when the axe swung into the ancient oak. The titan almost fell. His weapon sang for a final time and the tree tumbled to the forest floor.

He hurled his axe to the ground before settling upon the severed trunk. He blinked in surprise when a crow hopped towards him. Raven black eyes studied him for several moments before the strange bird flapped its wings and hovered above him.

The creature darted back into the shadow of the forest much to the amusement of a muscled witness. He reached for a flask of water before inhaling deep at the sight of a wild black haired woman dressed in an excuse of a robe.

‘Do you have any water spare? I am so thirsty.’

The axeman beckoned her forward and offered his flask.

‘I do. Please, help yourself. My name’s Hugh, may I have the pleasure of yours?’

‘Marjorie. Thank you for your kindness.’

Marjorie’s heart hungered for the taste of Hugh’s blood. One flick of her wrist and her jagged dagger would pour widow venom into his soul. Hugh said nothing, instead he watched the liquid conquer her thirst.

‘You are welcome. I am glad you stopped by.’

‘Why is that?’

Hugh stole a breath.

‘Because you are so beautiful Marjorie. Forgive me being so forward but you are perfect.’

Marjorie’s hold on the dagger loosened. His sapphire eyes burned into her filthy depths and filled her with addictive warmth.

‘No-one’s ever called me that before.’

Hugh edged closer. Their mouths were within touching distance. The crow witch allowed Hugh’s lips to mingle with her own. She responded by seizing his shoulders and drawing him in. Clothes tumbled and dark innocence was pierced.

Marjorie looks with fondness at her ageing partner and the day she surrendered to love. He never asked about her past. She told their children though. Yet they would never turn to the lure of the crow and her former ill life. She would ensure her brood would follow their father’s path.


Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. He has written two novels which are currently being edited. His writing does tend to veer away from what you might expect. He has had many short stories published as well as the occasional poem. He enjoys both writing prose and poetry. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and can be extremely dark. Some of his influences are James Herbert, Stephen King, Bulgakov, Tolkein to name but a few. He is also a proud member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers group in Maidstone which features an eclectic group of very talented writers.

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