From “Rage”

The girl turns off the water and reaches for a towel. Finding the rack empty, she steps out of the tub and bends to open the cabinet. As she pulls a folded towel from the top of the stack, an oversized hardcover book wedged within falls to the floor. The book is Intimate Photography. Its cover is a shadowed and entwined nude couple, presented in black and white. The girl opens the toilet tank and drops the book inside. Displaced water sloshes over the porcelain.

From “A Flock of Crows is Called a Murder”

Gary fires. His shot grazes the trunk a foot below the crows. Bark flakes off and rains on the windshield.

The crows flex their wings.

Aunt Sylvia gasps. “Did your father buy you that?”

I estimate the distance for Gary. “Nine yards.” Well within range. I wet a finger and test the wind. “Slight breeze from the west.”

Aunt Sylvia stares at me, open-mouthed.

“Thanks.” Gary sights carefully and fires again. A direct hit on a back leg.

The stricken crow squawks and drops from its branch. Halfway to the ground, it beats its wings to slow its descent, then lands on Dad’s Sixty Special, right over the passenger window. It tells Gary off in a harsh voice.

Aunt Sylvia’s face pales. “Oh my God.”

Gary reloads.

“Don’t you dare.” Aunt Sylvia steps forward.

Gary fires. He hits the crow square in the chest.

With a gutter cry, the crow leaps into the air and flies right at us, pumping its wings hard. Its eyes are black marbles.