Abram L. Hawkens closed his book and sat back.

"At last. Finished."

The story that would change writing forever. The perfection of all mystery books, and the future of horror. His story.

Hawkens was always a strange man. He did not have many friends, and those he did have thought him to be a queer creature. He was rather antisocial and took to writing instead of going to parties and taking walks in the park. He was also a horror writer, which automatically made him a dislikeable person due to his love of disturbing and gory elements.

As he sat back and admired his newly published book, he looked out of his window. 

A small patch of flowers lay outside of his window, each a different color and with uniquely shaped petals. But Hawkens knew that under each and every beautiful flower, there was dirt and ants and centipedes crawling about. He hated flowers with a heated passion. He thought they reminded him of people. Fickle people that look sweet but are dirty and grimy and nothing but crawling with insects.

He saw a raven land down in the grass not ten feet away from his window and peck up a worm. He always did like birds of prey. Not in a vicious, longing for bloodshed type of way, but in rather a prideful, awe-filled way. They were strong but simple birds that didn't need long beaks to break necks, or large wings to get away fast. They were simple yet fascinating birds to him.

But they were also a symbol of Death.