The Alehouse at the End of the World by Stevan Allred

Author:Stevan Allred [Allred, Stevan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Forest Avenue Press
Published: 2018-08-17T16:00:00+00:00

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The crow flew high above the inlet, just below the overarching belly of the Kiamah beast, his spirit in a ruckus. When he thought of the goddess, he wanted to touch her, to rub his beak all over her body, to press his zibik against her loins. What happened after that was not entirely clear to him, but he knew that something urgent inside him would find a release. And yet . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . he wanted something more. Something dark and violent, something just as urgent, just as in need of release. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . yes, this was it. Kiaw! He wanted to plunge his beak into her chest and rip out her heart!

He was, after all, a god, and a king, and he was every bit her equal. No, he was better than she, for he was crow, and human, and mole, and dragonfly, and he could take any shape he wanted, if only he practiced a bit whatever the form he chose. She was a gill-flurt, and a whore, and he would slay her and all who loved her. But first he must have her, he must show her what a prize he was, so that she would know her own foolishness as she died on the end of his beak.

What a mountain of dung love was. To feel so hot and so cold all at once. Over the same creature. She was a woman, and a goddess, and how could he kill the only woman he had ever loved? She was a devil. He must avenge her mockery of him—aw aw aw aw aw. Love her. Kill her. Love. Kill. Aw. Kiaw. Aw. Kiaw.

The crow flew in circles, muttering and considering. Why have a heart if it meant this much sorrow? He was wretched, and his life meant nothing to him anymore. Awww, death would be such sweet sorrow. Death was the answer to his anguish. Hers, his—it made little difference. The crow paused in his flight and passed a wing in front of himself. He would end his suffering in one final gesture of brokenhearted revenge. In his human shape, from high above the inlet, which was the size of a mere puddle below him, he fell from the sky, his arms spread. The wind in his face swept the feathers on his head back. He was a god, but he was not immortal. None of them were. Not Raven, not any of the Old Gods, not Dewi Sri. Wind whistled past. What a splash he would make. She would know then, she had broken his heart. She would die of loneliness, weeping over his broken body, bringing flowers to his grave. With her last breath she would cry out “I have wronged you, O noble crow, forgive me.” And he would not. Or he would. Or not.

He fell and fell and fell. Now the inlet rippled with waves. Closer, closer.

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