The crow men Pt I ~ ‘All Chimeras Never Change’ (short story) ~ René


It was not how they said. Not quite that at all. Although nearly. When I saw the first face I knew that I had to tell someone. There was no one near in the darkness, except that which I had been taught. And the gentle flux of night was welcoming, at times…

When the time came I knew it had come.

Although saying that, I didn’t know that, until now. And now.

I can easily describe it. A brush. A rocking feature. One wheel. No real legs. I know that! Because I was young when I first saw it.

And then you meet people don’t you?

So now I am old and I will describe her as she sits besides me.


Things have moved on.

I haven’t much to be honest, but he has.

She takes no care over what I have done, or not done.

She takes no care over my stories of bravery.

Where my shoulders bare rip marks because I started working out a lot and the conversation between my skin and muscle was not up to scratch. Nor does she care about the time I took off my belt to fight more people than I thought I could handle with my fists.

She laughs.

And he laughs.

And they are both very quiet.

And they say gently, lets sleep.

And more now, than before, I know exactly how they look.

But at least we laugh together sometimes.

Now, we are able to describe each other. And as I sleep she is with me. And I am able to describe her quite clearly as it is all one. And I close my blinds. And she comes. But. No blue back and forth wheel like before when I was small. All of everything. All man. All woman. All blackness and shade within my room. So when I turn and look at her she is like a shadow with weight. And that weight which you have the courage to push your face into. And that which is the entirety you live within.

There is architecture.

There are the floors below the floors below the floors.

And mean while I sleep but do not. And we are together.

He shaves and I do too. And she reminded me once that I was asleep. But I had grown drunk. And so the lesson was heavier. Although she set aloud my adrenalin rushing as if I was in control. And so I laid there. And we didn’t didn’t speak. Because night does not speak, but it does allow you to know it intimately.

Intimate inside space. And intimate inside you. A being without temperature comes, and knows you well. Like the bed of your bed, and your limbs unable to scream, she will come. So.

And even the owls are crying.

And there is a man outside placing milk in its correct place door by door, you already pulled the shade down, and your senses are new. New to learning an unwanted touch, and that which you cannot fight.

And. You meet more people don’t you.

The more adventurous of us meet many, and the rest of us do the same with the people we meet too, never really talking about almost anything. But she does. And he does. Oh yes, what comes does speak, when with or without company, some days, and it is this which we do not speak about.

Or speak too much about.

Where my night comes now does not care about my heroic shouting, or where I was wrong, or where I was right.

Strangely, she knows me better.

And has changed over the years with me.

But comes all the same.

She comes now.

She waits in the wall, and says that her fur is lazy.

He waits east waiting for me to sleep.

And I have no need of prayer.

Because the circles born of neurosis do no good.

Not on knees.

Not in blood.

But she drinks what I can, and is there to walk in when I finally pass out.

To describe her, this, this presence! Quite a wonderful, and self knowing person who will come tonight. Where your limbs are active she is not.

Where someone brings your head towards safety she is not.

Perhaps someone annoyed at all the old pagan witches with names, and she comes. Perhaps there is something filthy that we have not thought today that will come, and by the ache in what you see from your window he will come. All of you is touched.

And then there is the morning where you will face its family.

So brightly fight the losing fight of that which comes and licks your skin.

If only he or she were one. But they are many. And it is this hoard which comes, neither making up or caring for which knowledge of spirit you have.

Send out the calls to the screaming fox, and use a different name. She comes. And when you are face to face, or rather, near him, as close as she allows, you feel it like your sight has been robbed, and the instillation of your senses has been re-routed and nullified by new elements, created by each moment.

Like sleep walking and being close to death but being unable to decide, is her joke. No wheels for limbs when he comes for you later. The wheels were for children and the invisible hands are for you now.

I know her perfectly, can see her perfectly, walk with her, sometimes he even lets me– I try and ask the creature where we shall go. But in the den of my heart and hands I know. I have always known. From the time I saw you first making small movements in the corner, to the skull-numbing hours spent hovering in an office, or stacking shelves, or re-ordering albums on a rack.

And like the best of loves, all chimeras never change.

Even the composition of your face, as its velocity changes how ash moves down, remains the same. You scoff at the ideas of the anima and animus, and those who have tried to record the movements of your familiar flesh.

The old Gods and new demons have nothing to do with you, and stay away from your steps. So when you choose a new mate, and things take their natural path, you dance together in a cermony that crushes all patriachy and matriachy, and those whom are uncertain, or feel like a tsunami twisting around a long bow that is drawn back by opening you rib-cage.

She is here as I look up at the ceiling. I am a nine foot tall man. The chairs legs, my new legs, are here. They stand still. They sway. And you. You come to me finally. Not as something grotesque that I cannot see at night. But an unfamilair friend that is calmer than all traffic laced together with fire.

I see from here the weekend as it is in East London.

And no city has ever been built into a greater hive.

You tell me this quietly.

You say that there is no need to ever work again.

You walk around the chair and touch my stomach gently.

‘I like this shirt.’ You say.


‘Yes I like it. It looks like your favourite shirt. You can tell that. Its looks just like your skin has red and grey and black checks on it.’

I’m happy that there is no work tomorrow.

I breathe in, evening out my guts and chest like a new set of meaning.

And I enjoy my new height. I am intoxicated by it more than the seas and seas of whale fueled beers and whiskey that I love too.

As I make the chair move from side to side, tilting my flat into oblivion, I look outside. Its Friday.


is Raoul Moat in a boat. His first words were ‘Newky Brown’. As well as being our most prolific writer, René also creates graphic art, paintings and screenplays.

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