LOST
A Conspiracy of Ravens

Stew Kasey was a neat-freak. Sure, on any given day, you could replace a pile of dirty clothes sitting at the edge of his bed, but this was because he didn’t live in an apartment with a washing machine and he didn’t have time everyday to go out and do laundry. However, the dishes were always done, his bills were organized and he cleaned out his refrigerator once a week. The same went for his desk at work. A cup with a college logo for pens and pencils. A clear plastic box with different compartments for thumb tacks, paperclips and rubber bands. Even his coffee mug had a home on a clay coaster in front of a framed, three-cell filmstrip from the movie ‘A Clockwork Orange.’ That’s the one thing his girlfriend didn’t nag him about—his cleanliness. He was an Anti-Slacker in the middle of a slacker generation. He always kept his hair neat and trimmed and never let his goatee grow more than half an inch long. He wore jeans and a polo t-shirt, not because they were comfortable, but because that’s what he could afford.

Stew was a busy guy. After graduating with a Mass Communication Degree with a minor in Film Studies from the University of Charlotte, he started at The Charlotte Gazette as a beat reporter writing for the City section. He was sure he could have found a gig in Arts and Entertainment somewhere with a larger market but he wanted to stay in Charlotte, which was close to his parents’ home in Salisbury—thirty minutes north. Fortunately, he didn’t have to write boring articles about Charlotte’s growing crime rate or yet another drunk driver going the wrong way on the interstate for very long. After three months of paying his dues as a rookie reporter, he started filling in for the head film critic who was getting close to retirement and began taking weeks off at a time.

Stew sat at his desk at the Charlotte Gazette with his head resting on his hand. The skin of his cheek bunched up toward his eye while five troll figurines stared down at him from a shelf to the left of his computer. Their wide, black eyes, fluorescent colored hair and out-stretched arms mocked his humdrum existence as he sat idly in front of his monitor. The aroma of microwaved ramen noodles and Lean Cuisine Chicken with Penne Pasta wafting over his cubicle roused Stew from his daze. His mind was numb from spending all morning doing research online for his next film review. Now, he could feel his empty stomach gurgling as he rose a few inches above his chair to peek over his cubicle wall. Not a soul in sight except for Stephanie, an Arts and Entertainment copy editor two cubes over—Ms. Lean Cuisine and ramen. The beeping of the microwave might as well have been his alarm clock—he stood up and stretched his arms, pushing the chair back with his legs. As he took his coat from the back of his chair, he moved his mouse over a button on his screen and clicked it to log off. Grabbing his messenger bag from under his desk and slinging it over his shoulder, he quickly headed to the elevator.

Life had been good enough to Stew up to this point. There were a lot worse jobs in a lot worse places than a film critic in Charlotte, North Carolina. No childhood illnesses. No abusive father. In fact, Stew’s family was probably the farthest thing from dysfunctional. Still, he couldn’t help but think, as he waited for the elevator to carry him to the first floor, that there had to be something more—something just beyond his reach. He could not bring himself to believe that being a film critic was his destiny. Though, Stew was a gifted writer, he did not have much confidence that he could not easily be replaced by a monkey with a typewriter. He didn’t even know if he believed in destiny to begin with.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside. As they closed again, he saw his reflection in the metal. He didn’t grow up going to church. His parents believed themselves to be Christians and had gone to church at one time, before their children were born, but became so tired of the gossip-mongering that it had taken a toll on their faith, as well as their relationship with each other. They still managed to raise Stew with a good sense of right and wrong, compassion and understanding. Now, he wondered if there weren’t something missing.

The elevator doors opened again and, walking across the tiled lobby floor, he saw the light from the midday sun spill in and illuminate the world around him, but something cast a shadow on him and him alone. He opened the front door and stepped outside, expecting to replace construction scaffolding or whatever it was casting the shadow, however, he found nothing. A gust of wind blew a discarded newspaper off a nearby bench. Stew followed it with his eyes as it unfolded and rolled down the street like an urban tumbleweed. Disregarding the lack of explanation—for both the shadow and the lack of people outside—he bathed in sunshine and felt that something missing temporarily filled with warmth. He could feel a slight breeze run its fingers through his dark, brown hair. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, but they were quickly startled open by a massive fluttering of wings. When he did open his eyes, there was a moment when he thought they were still closed. He was enveloped in cacophonous, feathery blackness. And all at once, he saw it disappear in a flock of hundreds of ravens, dispersing in every direction, making such noise he was forced to cover his ears.

“What the hell…,” Stew said, slowly regaining his composure. “Where’d all those crows come from?”

“Ravens, actually,” a female’s voice said from behind him. “A conspiracy of ravens.”

He turned around and saw that it was Stephanie, “Oh, hey, Stephanie. A conspiracy? That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?”

Stephanie shrugged, “That’s what it’s called. Like a murder of crows, pride of lions, gaggle of geese. I read it on Wikipedia. Conspiracy of ravens. Sounds mysterious. Don’t you think?” Stephanie asked.

“Not nearly as mysterious as where they came from all of a sudden… and disappeared to just as quickly.”

“There were rather a lot. I didn’t see where they came from, though. I looked up just in time to see them fly away.”

“It’s just weird,” he said as he cautiously eyed the skies, “Well, I need to get some lunch. I’ll see you later.” Stew hiked his messenger bag high on his shoulder, walked down the street, and hoped he would make it to his afternoon excursion without any more strangeness.

Zachary sat on a bus stop bench pretending to wait for his ride to work as he saw the man walk down the sidewalk across the street. The voices of strangers, meshed together to become an otherworldly language, echoed in his ears. Shoes and heels clipped and clopped around him. Cars whirred by in front of him. A lady with a hair net, a fast food uniform and a bag full of cheeseburgers fresh from under the warming lamp sat next to him complaining about her aching feet. The smell of burning tobacco wafting up to his nose from someone’s discarded cigarette could not mask the smell of old grease on her clothes. All this and not once did he take his eyes off his query.

I could take him down right now myself… easily, he thought as he walked down the sidewalk toward the café where he was to meet his two cohorts, keeping his eyes on the man across the street. I’m quick and silent. The perfect assassin. No. To do it correctly, it must be done in private. I’ve waited too long to screw this up now. My henchmen better hope they know what they’re doing or it will be them who wind up dead.

Zachary effortlessly dodged between people, not noticing their suspicious stares. What I wouldn’t give to have Xamn’s neck under my dagger, right now, nicking his pretty flesh, small pools of blood gathering at the very edge of the blade. I must be patient, though the time is very near. His eyes bled red with vendetta.

The man, who seemed to be in his early twenties, was now entering the lobby of a movie theater down the street—not a multi-plex but one of those refurbished, old fashioned movie theaters.

“A movie?” Zachary snarled under his breath, stopping at a table where his associates sat waiting for him. “Who goes to see a movie at one o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday?” The two henchmen shrugged their shoulders at each other, unable to come up with an answer for their boss. “Hmm… no matter. He has to come out sometime. When he does, according to my premonition, he will go into that alley over there.” He looked to the shadows between the pharmacy and the hardware store. “You two will follow him, capture him and bring him to me.” Zachary’s face was rigid as though made from solid steel. His eyes, unblinking, were as cold as a January morning. “I’ll be waiting at the warehouse.” His voice was low—barely audible, but there was no mistaking the rage amassing over centuries as he spoke. “It won’t be—” He swatted at a bug and missed as it buzzed around his ear. “It won’t be long now,” He continued. He took off his cloak, draped it over a chair beside Mr. Scott and sat down. A waitress came over to take his order. He beat her to the punch.

“Double espresso cappuccino.” The waitress quickly jotted down the order and hurried inside as Zachary gently tapped the hilt of his dagger with his finger. He sat and stared across the street at the theater, pondering the importance of the moment.

Mr. Scott looked at Mr. Di Corvo with greed and defiance as they sat and drank their coffee. He tried to think of a way to get his boss to notice him for more than just a thug. He had been a fair pickpocket as a teen in the boroughs of Boston. He wondered if he could lift the dagger from Mr. Di Corvo’s sheath. I could kill Xamn, Scott thought, and what could he say then? Nothing.

As the waitress brought Mr. Di Corvo his coffee, Mr. Scott figured now was the time to act. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,”Mr. Scott said, standing up and as he did, he made sure to nudge the table with his thighs, making Zachary’s coffee topple and then spill. As Mr. Trent and the waitress rushed to keep the mess from becoming worse, Mr. Scott took the opportunity. With the slightest of hands, he unbuttoned the fastener on Mr. Di Corvo’s sheath, removed the dagger and put it in his inside coat pocket all in the span of five seconds, and Mr. Di Corvo was none the wiser.

“You idiot!” Zachary exclaimed, dabbing his now moist shirt with a napkin. “I suppose that was my cue to go home.” Zachary threw the wet napkins on the table as the waitress left to go get more and pointed an angry finger at his blundering henchman, “For your sake, Mr. Scott, I hope this is the end of your clumsiness. I’ll see you two back at the warehouse. Don’t screw things up.”