Times Long Gone
By
Will Mayo
His hair is long and gray and
filled with pale flesh. His coat is muddy from the swamps of all the bayous.
And he is taller than any animal you've ever seen. But still you are afraid to
name him. For naming something only gives it power and power is the last thing
you want him to have.
As you run, the weeds and vines and
Spanish moss tangle up your feet, twisting them every which way, as they trail
like entrails of the dead. And those dry patches amid the oceans of mud are
growing more and more seldom; like oases of sand among deserts of swampy flesh.
Now and then, you glimpse an
alligator or a snake, the snouts gleaming in the moonlight as denizens of eyes
glow in the darkness. You are not afraid of their bites, however. For they
belong to earth and sky and Known. And the thing behind you is beyond all that.
Above you, the stars turn in
countless constellations between clouds like the wisps of ghosts. They pass by
and in between each other, slowly and then rapidly like fire upon the starry
eyes of a rabbit.
The clouds, too, are around you,
pressing in, like raw meat. Drawing more water and spirit than it takes to stay
alive. All for the bite of the Beast that is behind you.
Suddenly, and at last, you come to
the last of the dry moss. Ahead of you is only swamp and quicksand, the
muttering of the deep, waiting to suffocate you. Waiting to save one last
morsel for the Beast.
You hear him coming closer now. Every
footstep like the pounding of a dying heart, pulsating quicker and harder each
time. If a tree falls in the quiet forest, you can be sure is there to hear it.
You know that much is true.
At last, he is there, standing in
front of you, twice, no, three times your height. His beard and hair and
bulbous nose are clear as are the yellowing teeth between his cracked lips.
He raises his arm, leathery and
sharp, as if to strike. And at last you overcome the fear within you, the
denial of all. You see that recognition has its own power for the victim, the
cursed and the cursing.
You name him, gently, and then
loudly, your voice ringing the air, like a trumpet upon the walls of an ancient
city. Darkness flies and scatters in all directions as a dream that is not a
dream begins to end.
Your eyelids flap open, whip back
and forth, before finally settling in an upright position. Staring about the
cabin and its sparse accouterments, you blink a couple of times as sweat and
tears blind then clear the sight of a life's work.
Memories cannot be forgotten. Nor
can dreams be canceled in the middle of the night.
You scream at last and relief fills
the air from its quiet sleep and you relive what is and is no more.
“Mastah!” you shout “No!”
A pause, then the following scream:
“Papa! No!”
A few more shudders, then begins
the walk to a freer spirit within.
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What Else Can There Be?
By
Will Mayo
"Isn't there anything on your
mind besides sex?" she asked. "Anything at all?"
I had to stop and think over that
one. And then a bit more.
Finally, I said,
"No, I guess not."
"So, there!" she said.
And then she stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on my lips before turning tail
and walking away.
Women! I never can figure them out.
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Perchance To Partake?
by
Will Mayo
Still I remember how it was about forty odd years ago when some foolish doctor was wondering if I was smoking the funny stuff. "Will," he would say, "are you smoking on one of those strange little cigarettes with all that weird stuff again?"
"No, Doctor," I replied. "I just get high off of life itself."
Over and over he asked me. And when at last he knew how true it was that I was getting high off of life he upped my medicine. He just never knew how precious a high life really is, more precious than anything really...
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