| Welcome | Contents | Submissions | Contact | Privacy | About | The Fawn by Christopher Woods Now in the evening he walked to the window and looked out. Early in the day, he had buried his wife. Others, their friends, wanted to stay with him, but he had said he wanted to be alone. Now, he was. A strange and oppressive silence in the house surrounded him, almost making it hard to breathe. He looked out and saw mists collecting on the mountain ridges in the distance. The mountains were blue in the fading light. Then he heard something, a kind of cry. A wail. A desperate sound. He looked down toward the gully that ran behind the house. And he saw it. A coyote, attacking a fawn. At first impulse, he wanted to do something, to act, but he knew it was probably too late. The coyote had now stifled the fawn's cries. Even if the fawn still seemed to struggle, the coyote was already feasting on the warm flesh. He could not ignore such violence, and he could not look away. He decided to go outside on the deck for a better look. The light was fading into dusk, and maybe he could get closer. When he stepped outside, the noise of the door startled the coyote. Alert, ears up, the coyote saw him. There was a brief moment of silent recognition. The coyote held his gaze. Then, abruptly, the coyote turned and ran into the underbrush.

He went back inside and poured a drink. He looked around the quiet house. Then he poured another drink. An hour later, he decided to go down to the gully. He would check on the fawn. Maybe it was too late, but maybe not. There was no moon. When he at last found the fawn, it was much too late. Apparently the coyote had returned and finished the feast. The fawn's ribs were white against the darkness. He went back to the house for another drink. Sitting on a barstool, he wondered if he would remain in the house. Memories were not so good. So bad, in fact, that they had recently discussed divorce. Then her cancer came and he was trapped into staying. He did not love her any longer, nor did she love him. They both knew it but never said it aloud. She died at home, in the bedroom that overlooked the yard and the blue mountains. She came and went, but the morphine kept her mostly free of pain. Once as he sat beside her, her eyes opened wide. He could see fear in her eyes. She looked at him distantly, as if he were a stranger. His gaze held hers for a moment. Then, so suddenly, she seemed to grimace. She looked away. Morphine or not, she did not want the last thing she saw to be his face. He understood. Late in the evening, he stumbled drunkenly down the hill to the gully. He was drawn to the fawn, but he did not know why. When he got to the place where the coyote had been, very little of the fawn remained. Instead there were vultures, maybe a dozen, going about their work. They were not bothered by his presence. After watching them for a few moments, he turned to go. He looked up at the house and realized he had not left even one light burning. He staggered through the dark. He could not see a thing. Please send us your comments, including the name of the work you are commenting on. | Welcome | Contents | Submissions | Contact | Privacy | About | Copyright © 1999-2003 by Amarillo Bay. All rights reserved. Individual works are copyrighted by their authors.