The White Crow - By Marie Lubi

Written By: Marie Lubi

Category: Short story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Introducing "The White Crow," a captivating short story by Marie Lubi, featured in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. As part of the competition's rich tapestry, this narrative transports readers into a mysterious realm set within the Black Forest. The story intricately weaves elements of mystery and intrigue, inviting readers to follow a woman's enigmatic journey through a dense, ancient woodland. Marie Lubi, writing under the name "The white crow," crafts a tale that promises to captivate and inspire.

About the Work

"The White Crow" unfolds with a haunting elegance, drawing readers into its atmospheric setting. Marie Lubi's storytelling is rich with imagery and depth, capturing the reader's imagination as the protagonist navigates through a shadowy forest, carrying secrets and shadows. The narrative is steeped in mystery, with a tone that is both enigmatic and compelling, leaving readers pondering the deeper meanings behind each encounter and choice. Her use of vivid descriptions and the interplay of light and dark enhance the story's immersive quality.

The white crow

Original Submission by Marie Lubi

The white crow

PROLOGUE

In the Black Forest, long before the borders were redrawn and the paths renamed, a woman moved through the night with a dead man dragging behind.

The woods were dense here, older than any city and far less forgiving. Trees rose like pillars, their canopies tangled so tightly that moonlight slipped through only in thin, fractured strands. Fog coiled close to the ground, pale as bone, clinging to roots and fallen leaves as if reluctant to let anything pass. Each step the woman took pressed damp earth beneath her boots; each step dragged the corpse farther from where it had fallen.

The body was heavy in the way only the dead could be — all resistance gone, all cooperation stripped away. Its heels snagged on roots, scraped against stones, tore shallow lines through moss and soil. Blood darkened the forest floor in uneven smears, the metallic scent sharp against the cool night air. When the body caught too firmly, the woman stopped, adjusted her grip, and continued without a sound.

She did not rush, it seemed like she had done it a hundred times.

Her cloak brushed against bark as she passed, greenish-black fabric woven to vanish among shadow and leaf. Raven feathers were stitched into its hem, dull and matte, absorbing the moonlight rather than reflecting it. Above her, branches creaked softly. Somewhere deeper in the forest, something stirred — then went still. The woods recognized her.

She followed no marked path. This route existed only in memory and instinct, winding between ancient trunks, across a narrow stream whose water whispered quietly over stone. She stepped through it without hesitation, boots darkening as the current washed away traces of blood. The corpse bumped once against the bank on the far side. She tightened her grip and hauled it onward.

The hidden graveyard lay beyond a meadow that never fully warmed, even in summer. Frost clung to the grass there, silver and thin, and the air felt heavier — expectant. Stone markers leaned at odd angles, their surfaces worn smooth by time and moss, names long erased by wind and rain. This was not a place of mourning. No flowers grew here. No prayers lingered.

Mistakes were brought to this ground.

She dragged the body to the edge of an open pit, already waiting. For a moment, she stood still, breathing slow and measured, eyes fixed on the face turned limply toward the sky. Whatever power the corpse had once carried was gone now — taken, burned out, or stripped away by decree. The forest did not care which.

“Quiet now,” she murmured, not unkindly, though firmly.

She lowered the body into the earth with care that might almost have been mistaken for respect. Soil followed, then stones, pressed down firmly by her hands. She worked methodically, efficiently, until the disturbed ground looked no different from any other patch of forest floor.

When she finished, she remained there a moment longer, fingers resting against the cool earth.

“For this time it ends here,” she said softly.

The forest did not answer, but it did not object either.

She rose, pulled her cloak closer around her, and turned back the way she had come. Fog slipped in behind her, settling over the grave, smoothing away the last signs of disturbance.

By morning, no one would know a man had died there.

And the woods would keep the secret — as they always had.

Years later

1. The witch and her daughter

Next to a massive black cauldron in the thick blue mist stood a blonde-haired woman, mumbling to herself as she stirred the pale blue bubbling liquid with slow, practiced movements. The spoon clinked softly against the iron rim, steady and patient, as if she had done this a thousand times before.

“A pinch of hemlock flower dust,” she muttered, sprinkling the powder in with narrowed eyes. “The green one… like his eyes.” Her mouth twisted.

The liquid shuddered and changed to a bright pink color. It sparkled a little like it was laughing at her because she was annoyed. The liquid seemed to be enjoying the fact that it was making her irritated. The liquid was slowly taking a deep purple shade. It was still sparkling. “Eventually she will learn about you, but you still hurt both of us, even though it was not your fault, entirely.”

The purple, glittery liquid scintillated in the cauldron. Morgan chuckled. The door flew open with a bang.

“Mother!” a tall girl called.

“Yes, my dear, how was it today?” The girl was taller than her mother, and the purple hair was soaked in water. She reminded Morgan so much of her father.

“I found the little blueish flowers you needed. The blan—”

“Silverdew blooms,” her mother supplied.

“Yes, exactly. I knew it. Anyway, they are near the eastern big lake and the water there was so warm, and the bluebird with whom I talked to, took me there. Can I give him some seeds? Please?”

“What did I say about going to the eastern side and not telling me?”

“Not to…”

“Exactly. And yes, you can give him seeds, and thank you for finding these flowers. I have looked for them for a while now.”

Morvena nodded, looking at her boots.

“Also, Morvena, I need you to go to the town later today. I have this potion…” Morgan turned around to take the potion, “For Viktor,” When she turned around, she realized that Morvena had gone to the woods. “That I need you to take to him,” she said, like ending a thought.

2. Kronwyx

Ravenport at night felt like a whole different place. It felt like stepping through the curtains of darkness. The crows were croaking but you couldn't see them, you only could hear them from far away flying into the night. The district where Morvena was headed was one of the worst at night not that at daytime it was much better, however the mist in Krownyx never completely dispersed. This county, according to old stories, was once the Lusterhaze. Place where locals held the festival of Salembra. The festival of red and light, now only old locals remember that and Ravnport includes almost half of the town, despite once being only a little part between the Black Forest and Lusterhaze.

Lamplight barely flickered down the narrow streets, all yellow and smoky through the streets, throwing long, wonky shadows that grabbed onto every doorway and corner. The stones under Morvena’s weighty boots were slimy with damp—a mix of river mist, sloshed beer, and stuff you really didn’t want to think about. Further into town, you could hear glasses clinking and laughs bubbling up, but out here, where the market met the quiet houses, the sounds got thin and sharp.

Morvena walked with her head down, her dark green-black cloak pulled tight around her; it felt heavy but light at the same time, layered just right to hang straight and hide her shape, the hood pulled so far forward it swallowed her face. Underneath, her ear tips were tucked away, flattened by a thin band she’d gotten used to ages ago. The mask covered half of her face; only her greenish eyes melted with the cape, and a small braid had fallen out. She disliked the city, but the city perhaps hated her even more.

The cloak smelled faintly of rain in the woods and squashed leaves. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the city.

She had no reason to hang around. Her basket was empty, her errands were all done, and the money she’d made was chilling in her small leather pouch under her cape, totally ignored. She should’ve already turned for the road out of town, heading for the woods and the comforting darkness of home.

But instead, she slowed down.

The street ahead squeezed tighter, buildings leaning into each other like they were sharing a secret. A voice cut through the quiet, warm summernight—a woman’s, strained and tight.

“I said no.”

Morvena stopped, blending flawlessly with the house and darkness.

Three guys were blocking the alley up ahead, their shapes all loose and cocky, completely chill because they had the numbers and the dark on their side. One of them was way too close to the girl, so she was squashed against the wall. She was young, probably just a few decades old. Her golden hair, which probably started out nicely braided, was now flowing in the wind, sticking to her cheeks. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, knuckles white, jaw clenched tight, fighting to keep her fear from showing.

“Come on,” one of the guys purred, his voice honeylike, like he’d said it a hundred times before. “You don’t want to walk home by yourself, do you?”

Morvena walked closer her heavy boots sounding like a big strong man was coming nearer.

All three heads whipped around.

“That’s enough,” she said, calm as anything, her voice was deep and steady, not loud or scared. But it still cut through everything.

The guy closest to the girl snorted. “Mind your own business.”

“Get away from her, and I will.”

“Why would we? It’s none of your business. Go!”

Morvena smiled “As you wish.”

The first hit was quick and clean—her fist slamming into the guy’s jaw with a muffled crunch. He stumbled back, so shocked he couldn’t even make a sound, and just crumbled against the wall. The second guy lunged, trying to grab her cloak. She spun fast, letting the fabric slide right through his fingers, then drove her knee straight into his ribs. He wheezed as the air got knocked out of him and slid down the stone wall.

The third guy froze. “Are you going to run, or do you want the same as your friends?” Morvena asked with a smirk.

He turned around and bolted into the labyrinth of streets like his life depended on it, boots clinking on the stones. “Don’t run into walls!” she bellowed.

Morvena leaned in just enough so she could see the shadowed outline of blondie’s face under the hood.

Quiet settled back down, only broken by some ragged breathing.

Morvena stood up straight, smoothing her cloak back into place like she’d just bumped into someone in a crowd. She turned to the girl.

“Are you okay,” she checked.

The girl nodded, even though her body hadn’t quite caught up yet. Her shoulders gave a little tremble, her breaths coming in tiny sips. She pushed herself off the wall, then seemed to realize her legs were wobbly and leaned back again.

“Thanks,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

Morvena gave her a quick once-over. No cuts nor bruises. Scared, yeah, but fear goes away.

She reached into the inside pocket of her cloak and pulled out a thin wristband. It was braided leather, dark green with a hint of red, as well as something older woven into it.. The magic tucked inside was subtle, meant to fly under the radar.

“Take this,” Morvena said, holding it out. “Wear it; it won’t hurt anyone. It just… makes people lose interest.” The girl hesitated, then took it. The moment her fingers closed around the band, it glowed, settling down like it knew she was the one it belonged to now.

“What’s your name?” the girl asked shyly.

Morvena paused. Names are very powerful. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. Names make everything real.

Still, she answered.

“Morvena.”

The girl repeated it softly, trying out the sound. “I’m Annette.”

Morvena gave a small nod. “Go home, Annette. Take the wider streets. Stay where there’s light.”

Annette nodded, putting the band on her wrist. “Why’d you help me?”

Morvena’s expression softened, though Annette couldn't see it under the hood.

“Because my mother taught me to,” she said simply.

She turned away before any more questions could pop up, melting back into the city’s shadows. The street swallowed her up fast, the lamplight barely clinging to her shape.

Annette watched until she was completely gone.

When Morvena finally left the city in her rearview and the forest rose up to greet her, the air got cooler, thick with the smell of moss and water. Leaves whispered overhead. A crow shifted on a low branch, watching her pass by.

Morvena let out a slow breath.

Helping others always had a cost.

She just never knew what that cost would be until later.

3. Annette

Annette had chosen Ravenport because no one who mattered would think to look for her there.

She was not human — not fully — though she had no language for it yet. All she knew was that she did not fit, no matter how carefully she tried. Her stepfather had raised her as his own, or so everyone said, and for years she had believed him to be her real father. The truth had come quietly, cruelly: a document she was never meant to read, a conversation that stopped when she entered the room.

After that, nothing made sense anymore.

Whatever she was, it was enough to make her less.

She had done everything right. Her lessons were flawless, scores higher than her brother’s and still the approval never settled on her. Tutors praised her effort, but celebrated him. Her mother looked at her with pride, yes, but also distance, as if Annette reminded her of something she had tried very hard to forget.

Maybe it’s because I’m a girl, Annette thought once, standing alone in a practice hall long after the others had left.

Or maybe I was never meant to be enough.

She couldn’t stay in the castle another second, so she ran quietly with the finality of someone who knows they will never win by staying. And promised herself that she would change her behaviour.

Ravenport greeted her with heat and stench and noise. The air was thick with salt and decay, fish hung from hooks in the sun, and fishermen crowded the streets with rough laughter and stained hands. She hated fish. Hated the smell, the texture, the way it seemed to coat the city itself.

And yet the heat pressed into her skin in a way that felt… strange.

Not comforting. Not remembered. Just right, in a way she couldn’t explain.

Her golden-brownish skin caught the sunlight, warmth settling into her bones, and for a moment she slowed, unsettled by the sensation. It felt like standing too close to a fire you didn’t know you’d been missing. She shook it off quickly. Sentiment was dangerous. Curiosity even more so.

Her mother had moved them away from her homeland when Annette was very young. Namaqua, a place spoken of rarely and only in fragments. Sometimes Annette wondered if her mother had fled because of something. or someone. Or if she had simply traded one life for another when she married the King of Notifica and learned how Namaqua will never exist again.

Even though it was warm, Annette pulled her thin cloak tighter and kept walking..

She was here for answers, though she didn’t yet know the right questions. She didn’t know who her real father was — only that he wasn’t the man who had raised her. Somewhere in this city, buried beneath fish guts and lies, there was a truth she needed.

Because if she was never going to be good enough for them…

Then she would find out why.

Maybe the girl she met last night, Morvena, could help her get away from this god-awful town of Ravenport. Annette looked at the wristband she got, it still glowed.

Annette strided down the wide street casually looking at stalls that sold different kind of fish and nets for fishing. Her head hurt from all the fish and smell so she opened an emerald green door on a narrow street between two fish-selling stands.

As soon as Annette stepped inside she realized there was no fish smell. It smelled like fresh herbs, woods and clean lakewater. The little shop seemed cozy enough to stay for a while. Herbs were hanging from the beams, big dark shelves against walls had potions and powders on them. The boards of shelves were carved with symbols she didn't all know, but recognized some. The floor was clean, however all corners and under shelves had different sizes of jars and bottles full of different kinds of liquids, herbs, whatever you could need. Annette took a spin in the shop and her eyes locked on one the armchair in the back corner. She took steps toward it and sat, sinking into it fully, she pulled her knees up and her eyes closed.

“Are you asleep already?”

A small voice answered from somewhere in the darkness.

“No.”

“Then I suppose I can keep going.”

The girl smiled, curling deeper beneath the blankets.

“What happened to Annette?”

The woman paused.

“That,” she said, “is where the story ends. For now.”

“But what happened?”

The gold-haired lady smiled.

“You'll have to dream the rest.”

The girl closed her eyes.

The room became quiet.

And somewhere far away, a crow called through the night.

“Goodnight, my little crow”

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates the diverse voices and talents of writers from around the world. This prestigious event showcases poetry, short stories, essays, and creative writing, providing a platform for participants to share their unique perspectives and creativity. With entries spanning various themes and styles, the competition highlights the power of the written word to connect and inspire audiences globally.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Marie Lubi for sharing "The White Crow" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her storytelling has enriched the tapestry of voices within the competition, and we are grateful for her contribution. We look forward to seeing more of her creative endeavors in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.