Stories by Will Mayo

The Raven

by

Will Mayo

The raven swoops down from the sky much as an eagle or a falcon might do in the wild, save that the raven’s own wilderness is the stand of trees and bushes existing amongst the countless A-frames of suburbia. His prey all that would try to survive the devils of 5 o’clock road traps and bureaucrats whose pastime is a mousetrap or two. The bird dips down into the trees, rustling branches around him. He is out of his habitat, yet quite at home among the orioles and robins that form the lens for the watchers at soccer mom matches and kids whose only act of violence is the Saturday morning cartoons.

The bird seizes first a bluejay’s offspring, driving his beak deep into the throat of a crying chick before dropping her into the customary bath to soften up tomorrow’s dinner. Next up, a field mouse is swallowed whole by a passing dip of the predator’s wings. While the bugs that dwell between the grasses and bushes that Old Man Rogers just trimmed make a fine after dinner snack.

When the raven’s belly is full and he finds himself somehow content to let the sparrow pass before him he lifts his purple-black body to the sky and lets out a mighty “Caw!” that sends even the hardiest crow scurrying in his wake.

All are silent before the sentinel’s watchful eye. In the distance the sun sets on the rows of trees making their last stand before the bulldozer. A paper shuffles in the wind and then becomes still.

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Rattle Them Bones

by

Will Mayo

"Take off your clothes," she said.

So I took them off and then she said, "Is that all there is?"

So I took off my skin, rattled my bones. It look to be quite an evening.

Outside, I could hear the gray wolf howl at the moon. Lots of things in the works for just one night. I could already hear her moaning for more. And more.

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Survivors

By

Will Mayo

The man and the woman compare notes over coffee in the restaurant like two old warriors long after the battle is done with. Never mind who won the war; it’s the getting there that matters.

First the man begins, tapping his front teeth with a wrinkled prune of a finger, first once, then again: “These are all fake. Doc put them in the other year. Ain’t the same as real ones, but they work like a charm.”

“Lordy, if that’s not the truth,” she replies, reaching into her mouth to take out her own full set of dentures, holding them up just-so to the light shining overhead before popping them back in again. “Lost mine in a fight back in ’72. But I’ll be damned if I remember what us old gals was fighting over.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, “I know the feeling,” though if memory serves him right he was a conscientious objector back in the days when ‘Nam was all the rage.

Finally, he points to his noggin and says, “Did I tell you about my brain tumor?”

“No,” she says, leaning forward, resting her chin in her hands in adoration like a bobbysoxer on seeing Elvis enter the room. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he says. “It was about the size of a walnut, so they tell me. A real beaut.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” and then adds after a somewhat meaningful pause, “Did I tell you about my Alzheimer’s?”

“No,” he says, a light shining in his eyes though the bare bulb overhead has long since ceased to let off any glow shinier than a penlight. “You didn’t.”

“Diagnosed just last week. They give me a matter of months before I lose sight of who I really am.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he responds. “That don’t give us much time, now does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Then another pause, only slightly longer than the last one (say, a second or two), before he says: “Did I mention my prostate surgery?”

“No, honey, you sure didn’t.”

“’Seems they took out the whole ball of wax,” he adds, and then they are on a roll. Only time and oblivion can stop them now.

But at last, after covering several more old war wounds (menopause and mastectomy make appearances each somewhere along the way), they rise, ready to take on the elements. He helps her into a winter coat some 50 years out of date and she guides him to his walker, and then they walk down the street, two old warriors ready (if a bit bewildered) to take on the world again. And damn proud of it, mind you.

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