Bigfoot and Wild Boy
by Stephen Hill
Already splintered by treetops, the last of the sunshine vanished behind a funnel cloud. It didn’t matter. Lenny could still see, and for a moment he forgot the sweat rolling like gravy down his back, and the sputtering whine of mosquitoes in his ears.
Cloaked in shadows and seen from behind, Bigfoot looked just as Lenny had always pictured — fighting the river’s rapids with brute strength, his back sprouting hair as thick as the living room carpet. Rapids broke across his waist, foaming and spitting, enraged they couldn’t drag him down.
This is the shot, Lenny thought, clutching his camera. This is perfect.
“The locals say Bigfoot has wandered the woods around here for years,” Uncle Reg had said one night, the dark jewels of his eyes glittering with customary contempt. “I tell you what Lenny — if I ever saw one shred of real evidence, I’d blow the cat.”
In the midst of all the terrible things Uncle Reg was, he was a man of his word, and Mr. Tinkles was an old tom that drew blood just for stepping in his path. The damage dished out from someone licking his balls, thought Lenny, had to be epic.
Lenny’s camera flash blazed, and Bigfoot slipped and stumbled, twisting its neck until his eyes found Lenny’s.
Even in the shadow, Lenny recognized a familiar contemptuous glitter before the current hurled the beast into the water, his fishing pole into the air, and rolled Uncle Reg downstream and out of sight.