BLo Od SuMmER

it rained red in the streets for seven days before the dogs came running.

thick and burning hot, it poured in wretched waves and suffocated the air. people drowned standing up. it was a biblical baptism, how the blood filled the dry cracks in our skin like rivers and never washed off our teeth completely. if you were lucky enough to smile, you’d still have a permanent reminder, forever tainted.

you’d think that horror might be retribution enough, but the angels above weren’t satisfied; with gnashing jaws and horrid eyes, the hounds caught and killed the ones we left behind. man’s best friend became our chilling reapers as they ripped their throats indifferent and mauled anything left to roadkill meat.

we were naive to think that was the worst of it. soon after, the rotting flesh set a new terror in motion. it ate away at the minds of men, and their sick mouths crawled the streets. listening to screams of agony turn to hungry, aching growls was the most gutting. boys i knew from school tried to tear me apart.

we boarded up and didn’t see sun for a year. after some time, the knocking stopped, and i’m still not sure if it was mercy or a curse. bodies returned to the dark soils within a matter of days, like carcasses in a museum of distant history. it didn’t help. the red, like a conscious acid, killed the grasses, made the land unworkable. it was up to time–how long we had left.

mama was right: everything was going to kill something. i just never thought it would happen like this. when the heat started to fade, you had to decide between yourself and everybody else. there were no more indifferent nightmare plagues to kill us off. it became a battle of survival, and who wanted it more. i was swallowed by it, and i think now that the worst punishment of all was having to make that choice.

the mirror is not me for many reasons, besides the grime and sunken eyes. the summer is coming to an end, and i’m not sure whether or not to be scared of daylight turning. what comes next for the ones who are left?

i still remember brightness and softness, the way things used to be, but there’s no point in mourning something you’ll never get back. even the winds–that once scratched at our windows for anyone’s listening ear–are quiet now.

the fields never fed us; maybe it was just a bad spell.

EDITORIAL: MARGO HELLER

PHOTOGRAPHY: HARLEM ROGERS