Firefly
By R.W. Clinger
()
About this ebook
As summer stretches on, Bay notices an unusual number of fireflies every evening. One in particular seems to follow him around the property. Why exactly?
Then Bay learns his trespasser is the tall and handsome Christopher Lavre. Unsettling questions make him what Christopher’s link is to the fireflies at night. Or rather, one lightning bug in particular...
R.W. Clinger
R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies, and includes the novels Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, and The Last Pile of Leaves. He has published many stories with Starbooks Press as well as The Weekender, a novella with Dreamspinner Press. His gay mystery, Cutie Pie Must Die, is published with Bold Stroke Books. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine, The Writer’s Post Journal. For more information, please visit rwclinger.com.
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Firefly - R.W. Clinger
Firefly
By R.W. Clinger
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2017 R.W. Clinger
ISBN 9781634863889
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
To Kenito Padilla.
* * * *
Firefly
By R.W. Clinger
Someone was in the vegetable garden again, leaving the gate open. Pissed, Baylord Bay
Woods guessed it was Henry Ni from next door, the Japanese-American who liked to cook. Ni admitted to taking tomatoes and other fresh vegetables out of Bay’s garden during the summertime evenings. Truth told, Bay had given the man permission to come and go as he pleased, unable to eat all the produce himself. What Bay didn’t like was how the man left the vegetable garden’s hip-high, wrought-iron gate open, granting access for a lavish breakfast/lunch/dinner buffet to deer, rabbits, and other Walt Disney furries of the wild.
Two gardens decorated the yard by Lake Erie, one vegetable and one floral. Both were in full bloom for the end of June and its warm season: beautiful and flamboyant with rich colors, and alluring to one’s nose. Both were approximately fifty square feet in size, nicely tended, and stunning. The vegetable garden showcased growing squash, greenish-red tomatoes, baby eggplants, an assortment of hot and mild peppers, and zucchini. To the far left sat the second garden, all floral, which presented a bountiful view of growing sunflowers, a butterfly bush, Lady’s Thumb, Glossy Abelia, crape myrtle, and white clover, among other floral treats for one’s eyes and nose. Most visitors to Bay’s acre by the lake called it spectacular and cottagesque. Others adored the fruit trees—apple, pear, and peach—scattered here and there.
Holding three freshly picked tomatoes in a round, handleless wicker basket in his right hand, Bay exited the garden. He closed the wrought-iron gate behind him and made his way up the sloped backyard to his saltbox-shaped house. The evening offered an eye-warming purple horizon over the choppy lake and a luxurious wind along the nape of his neck that reminded him of a man’s subtle kiss or tongue-touch. He heard noisy but soothing crickets, a cicada in the distant woods to the left of the property, and a neighboring owl, which was up early for a night of extreme and graphic hunting for field mice and other small prey.
The saltbox sported character, with its dark blue shutters, light blue trim, and cedar siding painted bright white. Small, with two bedrooms and one bathroom, the abode felt perfect for a single dweller. Bay had lived there for the last fifteen years, unwed, happy, and content. The smaller bedroom of the two on the second floor housed his office. Two windows overlooked a view of the gardens and lake, offering morning sunshine and evening wind that sometimes languidly swept down from Canada. There, comfortable in his office, he had worked for Niagara Publishers, formatting cookbooks on a computer for the last dozen years, making a comfortable living at thirty-nine, happy.
The first floor of the small house presented a living room, kitchen, and tiny dining room. To the right of the house sat a gravel driveway where his midnight blue Nissan Quest sat. A white picket fence, golf course-short grass, and cobblestone walkway enchantingly decorated the front yard, mostly always unused except for the playful squirrels or family of chipmunks.
* * * *
After placing the wicker basket on his kitchen counter, Bay stepped through the rear door to a cement, shaded patio. He headed to the right, over the short grass, and to the thicket of Pennsylvania trees that separated the two properties by Lake Erie. Among the oaks, maples, and birches, he smelled the sweet and soothing aromas of summertime. Bay made his way through the plot of trees and crossed his property line, trespassing on Henry Ni’s land.
Henry’s iced-purple Spark sat in his asphalt drive, telling Bay the dry-cleaning chain owner was home. Recently widowed at the age of fifty-seven, Ni had spent more time at home than in his dry cleaners; not that