For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form

“Crow Season”

Jennifer Mills


One for sorrow, two for mirth, she says.


It’s an old rhyme.Three for a death and four for a birth. Any more than that, and it’s road kill.

It’s the second thing she’s said to me after Whereya headed? and a nod. Superstitious, but we all are. Me, I prayed to Ned up in heaven that I’d make it out, and I’m all right so far.

She drives past the carcasses of long-dead vehicles, the scrub and spinifex, kicking up a dust I see change from red to white in the passenger-side mirror. I’ve never met this woman before, but she seems like she can take a joke.

You a witch or something?

Maybe. She grins and there are holes where teeth should be. My mother used to say it, she explains. Back in the day. You see so many this time of year, it goes round in my head.

There are worse things to circle your brain, I think, than crows.

We read it in The Rest Is Weight.