Firefly

Chapter 1

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.