The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

The whispers. Clay heard the figure whispering to him. He heard it in the dark, in this space they shared. The woods around them completely silent, but this figure, ten or so feet from him, whispered. It whispered from that gaping black hole of a mouth. “What do you want?” Clay asked, overcome with emotion. “What is this? Why are you doing this?”

The tall creature stepped toward him. Clay examined it closer. The thin membrane that covered its body contained vaguely human forms beneath it: blurry, bloody and black. The crinkling of its movement unsettled Clay and he rose to his feet, bracing himself against a tree. He looked at its one arm, and it held no stick. A thin, long protrusion that resembled bone, sharpened to a point, was segmented where a human elbow and wrist would be. The creature’s other arm hung bound with black strips to its body, withered and possibly useless. Clay picked up the scent of sweat and musk surrounding the creature.

The creature stood over the gravesite, the shovel at its feet. Clay watched it closely, and suddenly found his mind flooded again, images of the past washing over him, over and over, his ears ringing, his body wracked with agony.

Clay’s tongue gliding over the nape of the boy’s neck, the two of them in the park, alone in the woods.

The boy staring—with impossible eyes the color of nectarines—at Clay and telling him he loved him.

Clay and the boy, at the bluff, making love in Clay’s car.

The two passing in school, Clay avoiding the gaze of the boy.

Clay’s father, breaking through the tree line, finding them embracing in their tiny sanctuary.

Clay struggling to pull his pants up, while his father attacked the boy, raining punches and more on him while Clay screamed for him to stop.

The boy, his face demolished, eyes wide, gurgling on his own blood and teeth, struggling to speak.

Clay and his father, under cover of night, digging in the woods, discarded black electrical tape, plastic bags and a shovel nearby.

The boy gurgling, his voice a whisper, as Clay began burying him.

“My god …” Clay looked at the tall, monstrous figure. “You’re him.”

The figure lunged at Clay and stabbed him with his thin, bony arm. Clay fought back, swiping and bringing the cleaver down on the appendage, a flurry of flesh, bone, and blood erupting everywhere. Clay screamed and the monster began whispering louder, its words unclear.

Clay was overwhelmed, and his heart was racing. His mind was flooded with images of him and the boy from the pizza parlor. That glorious, warm summer, spent in each other’s arms. Holding hands in the cool darkness of the movie theater. Making love in the park, in Clay’s car, in the boy’s house when his parents went away. Exploring their love for each other in ways Clay never imagined possible. Discovering a closeness he never felt before, and hadn’t felt since.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I loved you!” Clay screamed, tears streaming from his face, blood and meat splattering with wet fury, blow after blow of the cleaver.

Clay continued to bring the cleaver down on the monster, who struggled under his weight despite its own huge size. Clay punctured the fleshy sacks that held fluid within, and he found himself covered in a pus-like substance, sticky, almost transparent, the smell overwhelming. He continued cleaving the creature, its one arm now torn to pieces. In between blows from the meat cleaver, Clay stabbed with the knife, finding the creature’s throat, face, chest, and heart in a blend of terror and excitement that Clay had never felt before. If this was the fight or flight response, Clay didn’t know, but he felt as though he was running on pure instinct, overwhelming the creature with attacks.

Eventually, the whispers stopped. Clay stared down at the monster and was blinded momentarily by what he thought was a flashlight from the woods. When he looked up, he saw the boy, sixteen, the age they both were when they had their affair. Clay stared at him and began to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Clay sobbed, his face slick with blood and tears.

The boy whispered, eyes a blazing orange-gold, and slowly walked off into the woods. Clay understood the whisper to be I know you are, Clay and waited until the boy was out of sight. Clay held his injury as he walked back out toward the entrance of the park. He grabbed his briefcase on the way and found himself losing more blood as he moved. The rain had picked up, and he was soaked to the core.

Eventually, he found himself by the same park bench he paused at earlier and had to sit and catch his breath. He put his briefcase down, took his jacket off and used it as a pillow to rest a moment. The rain continued pouring down, as Clay felt himself continue to bleed. Eventually, he closed his eyes, thinking he’d hear the whispering of his long-lost love.

But they never came. As he lay bleeding onto the bench, his blood mixing with the rain, which had grown steadily stronger, Clay thought about the boy. Thought about his father. Thought about Kirkbride’s Bluff. The years seemed to wash over him, and as he felt himself drifting away, he felt glad to rekindle his moment with the boy. Lost all those summers ago, lost to time, lost to his father’s rage.

Clay’s vision began to fade as he shut his eyes. In the dark, he saw the orange-gold glow of his lover’s eyes one last time.

Black Dog Blues

Luciano Marano

Choosing sides, that’s what you’re doing when you tell a story like this. By clearly identifying the aberrant we define and agree upon what is normal. We share unusual experiences and observations and thus reassure each other. It’s practically ritualistic, a way of definitively declaring that is not right and we are not that so therefore we are right. You understand?

That