I was just fifteen years old when I learned monsters were real. That day, a Tuesday, I recall, I was a little later than usual coming home from school, on account of joining the Science Club. I’d just recently watched Donnie Darko for the first time, and had become enthralled with the idea of time travel. As I walked home, backpack weighing me down, I realized I was going to miss the start of my favorite documentary series, and had to do something drastic if I intended to change that. There was a shortcut that ran through one of the yards in the neighborhood, but I rarely used it for fear of being caught. The old man who lived there was generally belligerent, and if he caught anyone cutting through his property he’d yell and chase them away, threatening to get his gun. No one had actually seen his gun, mind you, but no one wanted to, either. Perhaps I was feeling brave, or the thought of missing my favorite show was too much, but that day I decided the time I’d save was worth the risk. After jumping the old fence, I made my way along the side of the house and into the backyard. I cursed myself for wearing my Triforce hat and orange vest, as high visibility an outfit as one could find. I was about halfway across the yard when I heard a loud splash behind me, like someone jumping off a high board. I vaguely remembered the old man having an above ground pool which he likely never used, letting the water fester and bloom. The idea of old man Williams splashing around in that fetid water was both ridiculous and disgusting. And yet, something was in the pool. I watched the dirty water roil and churn, waves of it flowing over the sides. It looked as if an animal were drowning, and I stood frozen to the spot, not knowing whether I should run away from a place I shouldn’t have been in the first place, or run forward and help it. Time seemed to be rushing forward anxiously, the late-day sun arcing toward the horizon. The sight of the writhing thing that clawed its way out of the pool changed me forever. One look at its twisted formation of limbs and bones and organ, familiar things twisted into new designs, murdered my innocence in an instant. Its grotesque face, with bloodshot eyes nearly popping out of its broken skull, fixed on me in one, chilling instant. And then it was chasing me, bones popping and cracking, shuffling and rearranging its hideous form. And it screamed, too, screamed a single sound at me, a word like, “Nha!” The voice bloody and raw, the word sounding as if it had been turned inside out. My legs, heavy with the flow of cortisol and adrenaline, forgot how to work properly. I only ran a few feet before I got tangled in myself, tripping and falling to the cold ground, dirt and grass catching me, backpack crushing me as time seemed to slow down. I fumbled from my stomach and flipped over onto my back to see the monster bearing down on me, a maneuver that felt as if it took a month to achieve in the new flow of time. I prayed for the monster to be gone, a prayer that went unanswered. The creature was still stumbling and crunching after me, each moment twisting it into new and increasingly painful configurations. Each anguished step it took slowed down the seconds even further, until it was nearly on top of me and I swore time was going to stop altogether. It only gave me more time to stare at its disgusting form, to take in the tragic details of its painful existence. And then, it was gone. Like a blink it vanished from above me, nothing left but a wisp of black ash carried off by the breeze. It took me a minute to gather myself and stand, but when I did I noticed the sun was lower, moving toward the damp chill of night. “Hey!” Someone shouted, and I jumped, afraid the monster was back. But it was old man Williams, standing in the back door of his house. I ran from that place so fast I didn’t even hear his threats. I was so happy to be alive, I took my punishment for coming home late with a hidden smile. *** It took two years to see another monster. So much had changed in that time, from the divorce of my parents to the loss of most of my friends. I’d been politely asked to drop out of the Science Club, following my third attempt to recruit my fellow students in risky experiments. One of them, involving lasers and a gas-powered generator, nearly blinded my former friend Paul in one eye. Over time my experiments became one person jobs, either because no one wanted to risk getting hurt by being around me, or because their parents forbade it. High school graduation was a strangely emotional time for my fellow students, a reaction I never quite understood. They were either sad to be leaving each other or excited to be moving on, and sometimes both at the same time. I saw it for the necessary step it was. I’d been accepted to Stanford, and other than looking forward to using its state-of-the-art Laboratory for Advanced Materials, I knew that one place was the same as any other. The only brief sadness I allowed myself that day was when I learned my father wouldn’t be attending the ceremony. My mother assured me it had to do with a delayed flight on his return from a business trip, but a quick search of his flight information told me the truth. The plane had arrived on time. He simply didn’t want to attend. As I sat through the valedictorian’s mind-numbing speech, the afternoon sun baking us in our dark red graduation gowns, I recalled the Principal’s speech to me as we sat in her office, explaining why I hadn’t been chosen to be valedictorian despite my higher grade average. She nervously explained the other student’s various accomplishments, including everything from event planning to community outreach, and I sat patiently through it all. She was relieved when I told her it meant nothing to me, that my parents either didn’t know or didn’t care. After the ceremony it took me fifteen minutes to find my mother in the crowd. She was wrapped up in a conversation with one of the gym teachers, and she seemed surprised to see me, as if she’d forgotten why she’d come in the first place. I told her I needed to use the bathroom. She wasted no time returning to her conversation with a man who hadn’t said three words to me in four years. Only a few people were walking around inside the school, mainly teachers gathering their things, or janitors preparing the building for summer break. The boy’s bathroom was empty, which I very much appreciated on account of my shy bladder. I picked out a urinal at the far end, hiked up my graduation gown, and prepared to unzip my dress pants. My hair stood on end before I got the chance. Time slowed to a crawl as the toilet stall behind me came alive with the noise of something struggling inside, something with popping bones and twisting flesh. “Tih!” it screamed in agony. Before I knew it I was running again, running from the things that haunted me. With each step time moved faster and faster until it felt like a blur, a gushing river carrying me out of the bathroom and down the half-empty hallway, back to the beating sunlight, where the river slowed and returned to normal. The crowd was gone. All my fellow students and their families, everyone had left and gone home, including, as I soon found out, my mother. I walked the twelve blocks home looking over my shoulder, checking every shadow, every corner and swimming pool for twisting, deforming shapes. My mother and I didn’t speak about my disappearance, or much else for that matter. *** Each time I encountered one of the creatures, I became more sure of their effect on time. The closer they were to me, the slower time progressed. The further I ran, the more distance I put between them and myself, the faster the seconds moved, until eventually they returned to normal. This wasn’t some subjective experience based on my fear response but a legitimate phenomenon, corroborated by the time on my watch. As if time itself were bending around the creatures. For years I thought about nothing but the creatures and their strange influence on time. I became convinced they were either from another time or existed outside of it. And so I learned everything I could about time and one’s potential traversing of it. Black holes, wormholes, curved spacetime, infinite cylinders, I left nothing untouched. When most teenagers were in a parking lot drinking beer, I was in my room reading Carl Sagan. When they were arguing about whose football team was better, I was arguing about the Novikov Self-consistency Principle, or the Blinovitch Limitation Effect. I breathed Einstein and devoured Hawking. Time spent in anyone else’s company was time wasted. In Stanford I had my first breakthrough with a rudimentary Tachyonic antitelephone, though the machine melted before I could reproduce the results. The resulting fire got me expelled from the university outright, no matter how much I argued and pleaded for the sake of the research. It wasn’t the first time I’d been kicked out of an organization, and it wouldn’t be the last. By the time I transferred to Caltech my father had died, leaving me a substantial college fund, which was helpful since my mother no longer wanted me at the house. I ended up staying in one of the dorm houses, not the best environment for study, though it did offer the advantage of being a five minute walk from the Math and Physics Hall. My roommate- I didn’t catch his first name but everyone called him Eakins- was an Environmental Engineering student with an interest in both Oceanography and watching horror movies at high volumes late at night. One particular night, as he was blasting a Spanish language movie about a man with bloody bandages around his face, he told me I would probably like the movie if I paid attention to anything other than textbooks. He practically had to shout for me to hear what he was saying over the film. I looked up from my textbook to tell him there was nothing worth knowing a movie could teach me, especially a horror movie. But just as I did, as I opened my mouth to speak, a face appeared inches in front of my own. It wasn’t just mutated, but in fact still mutating. Like a puzzle box it shifted and snapped, the mouth contorted into an impossible angle, an angle that let out a single sound. A pained, gurgling, “Nreht!” I screamed, and the sound slowed down in pitch and length until I could hear and feel each reverberation of my vocal cords. A moment later the disfiguring face disappeared. Blinked out of existence, like it had never been there. My scream modulated back to normal pitch, and I found myself screaming directly at my horrified roommate. Eakins stared at me. “What the hell is your problem?” he asked. My heart thundered adrenaline through my veins. Eyes dilated and sweat beading on my face, I stared back at him. “I don’t think it’s a problem,” I replied after a moment. “I think it’s a puzzle.” *** Just before I was kicked out of my third and final university, this time from MIT for disruptive outbursts, a classmate stopped me after class and told me she’d very much enjoyed my argument with our Particle Physics professor. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I told her flatly. “I think he knows what he’s talking about,” she said, “but not as much as you do.” She smiled, and suddenly I realized she was very pretty. Beautiful, even. I offered to walk her to her next class, which she accepted. She told me her name was Yvette, and as we walked we discussed some light quantum theory, at her suggestion. “Energy disperses, objects equilibrate,” she said, “because of how elementary particles become intertwined when they interact.” “Entanglement,” I replied. “Exactly. When two particles interact they can no longer be described by their own pure states. They almost become as one.” “Like two people talking,” I pointed out. “Or even kissing.” As suddenly as I’d realized she was beautiful, that was how quickly I realized what she’d done. She’d baited me into speaking about entanglement so she could flirt with me. She was clever, and cunning, and I knew in that moment, as we stood smiling at each other in front of the library, that she would be the one I would marry. I asked her for her phone number, the way I’d heard people do. To my surprise she took out a pen and paper, wrote the number down and handed it to me. I glanced at her hand as she did, and noticed a bit of string looped around her finger. “What’s that?” I asked her. She glanced down, then back. “Oh, that. Just a reminder about something I have to do later. You’ve never tied a string around yourself before?” Her words struck me hard, like an apple falling on my head. In that moment an idea was born in my mind, fully-formed and raging to be free. An idea that would push me toward the brink of discovery. It was an idea so electrifying, in fact, that I almost didn’t notice the mass of bloody limbs running toward us. The humanoid creature stumbling and slipping across the great lawn that stretched out in front of the university library. Screaming in the daylight, the seconds racing by like a panic attack. I didn’t look this time. Didn’t want to see it. “Tahn!” it screamed, the voice slightly more human-sounding than before, yet no less anguished. “Do you see it?” I asked Yvette, my voice tight in my throat. She looked, scanning the lawn with a concerned expression. “See what?” I grabbed her arm, to pull her with me, to take her away from the danger lurching across the grass. She stiffened, the fear pooled in her eyes. By the time I looked at the great lawn, scared to see how close the creature had gotten, it was already gone. The seconds returned to normal but the air had changed. Yvette looked at me differently now. She waited for an explanation, waiting to give me the benefit of the doubt, but all I could do was leave. “I’m sorry,” I said, running off to the university lab. A future with Yvette had become an impossibility- but something greater was waiting for me ahead. *** The idea that was born in my mind that day became the new focus of my life, brought about by something as simple and elegant as a string tied around a beautiful girl’s finger. A reminder from her past self to her future self. A bridge between them. Cosmic strings. Narrow tubes of energy, left over from the formation of the cosmos. They contained huge amounts of mass, and therefore could warp space-time around them. I’d tried them before, looking to the stars for double images of background quasars, knowing I’d find a cosmic string joining them. If I could just accelerate atoms fast enough to outrun a light beam around a cosmic string, the theory went, I could outrun time. The problem was, no one had found one yet. They existed only in the realm of theory. But I had a new theory for where I might find one. A different kind of cosmic string, located slightly closer than eight billion light years away. And so, I started building my machine. It went through so many versions I stopped numbering them. Variation after variation after variation. I borrowed and spent every dollar I could get my hands on, using up my inheritance and my credit in the process. I secured funding from the kind of people you don’t make the mistake of not paying back. If I was successful, I told myself, I would have more than enough money to pay them back. And if I wasn’t successful, nothing would matter anyway. When the machine was finally done, I found the scrap of paper I’d been saving in a drawer and dialed the number written on it. “Yvette?” I asked. “Yes, who’s this?” “It’s Alex. Alex from Particle Physics.” There was a pause on the line, then: “Hey! How have you been?” “Working. And you? Are you still at the university?” Another pause. “Alex, I graduated two years ago.” “Right. Right, of course.” Time had gotten away from me. If she’d graduated two years earlier, how many had it been since I’d seen her? Three? Four? “Did you switch schools? I lost track of you after...” her voice faded out. “I’m on my own now. I couldn’t stand having to answer to people who didn’t understand the work.” She laughed softly. “Yeah, that sounds like you. You’re too smart for your own good, you know.” I’d never been a skilled conversationalist, nor was I one for indirectness. Since I didn’t know what the decorum was for this sort of situation- if the situation had ever come up before- I decided to be as blunt as possible. “I need you,” I said. “Your help, I mean. With an experiment.” Asking her for help was a long shot, but she was a fellow scientist, a seeker of truth, and we’d shared a connection once. That made her my best choice- even if it was my only choice. “What kind of experiment?” she asked, sounding curious. “I’d rather talk about it in person. Are you still in Massachusetts? Can you come tonight?” “I’m only an hour or two south. But Alex...it’s two o’clock in the morning.” Time. It had a way of getting away from me. After we finished our conversation, I sat in the dark for some time, going over the calculations again and again. Just as I turned off the computer, ready to find my mattress and get some sleep, I felt the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. I didn’t look. I closed my eyes as the creature materialized behind me. I didn’t have to see it reaching out for me, I could feel the dilation of time as it did, seconds becoming minutes becoming hours as it cried out in its inside-out language I’d come to know so well. Cried out a painful and haunted syllable. A bloody, choking, “Ood!” My eyes opened. They had to see it. The reflection in the darkened computer monitor, it looked almost human, a twisting silhouette of wet, snapping bone reaching out in the dark. Reaching out with rearranging fingers. And then, it was gone. I worked through the night, preparing the machine. *** “Human beings move through time like an arrow. I believe that, as we do so, we gather timespace energy about us- not unlike a static charge gathered from carpeting. In doing so we form a string through time that should, for all intents and purposes, act exactly like a cosmic string loop.” I turned to face my guest and added, “I call it a time string.” Yvette stood in front of the machine, admiring its simple design as I explained how it detected topological defects. I appreciated not having to simplify the science or be too succinct, as she had a firm grasp on the subject, and in fact asked all the right questions. “But do you really think you can find an anomaly as small as a proton?” she asked. “Not to mention, once a loop is formed it’s essentially doomed. It oscillates, radiates gravitationally, shrinks, and eventually...” “Evaporates, yes. But if my theory is correct, they should behave more like vortons.” She pondered it a moment. “A stabilized loop.” “Correct.” She looked from me to the machine. “It looks pretty cramped in there,” she said with sudden finality. “I hope you’re not claustrophobic.” “There’s no room for phobias in science,” I replied. “I built the machine to my exact dimensions. Nothing other than my physical body can be allowed inside.” I paused. “Not even clothing.” She nodded, understanding my meaning. “I guess there’s no room for modesty in science, either,” she said with a smile. I showed her how the operating program worked, taking the time to explain every command and function as we sat in front of the computer. I told her what to do in case of an emergency, however unlikely. As I did so, I tried not to think of the reflection in the monitor the night before. Then I undressed completely, laid my clothes carefully on the floor, and ducked inside the machine. Seeing it that way, about to be powered up with me standing inside, made me see the machine as if for the first time. A hundred dark panels were aimed directly at me, each one containing a thousand sensors running a hundred-million scans. The machine was like the child of an MRI machine and a deep space telescope, though a masochistic one, as an electric current was required to hyper-excite the energy field. I attached the adhesive patches to my body as Yvette watched from behind the computer. “Maybe after this we can revisit that conversation about entanglement,” she said. “There’s going to be an enormous amount of data to process,” I replied. Then, realizing what she meant, added, “But yes. I’d like that.” I talked her through the start-up sequence once more, then told her to close the machine door. There was no room in the design for an interior handle. She walked over, gave me another smile, and gently shut the door. I gave her a thumbs-up through the observation window. Then, a few seconds later, the sequence began. The only sound I could hear was the hum of the generator as the sensor panels powered up to full. A chill moved through my body. I thought it might be the unexpected effect of an oscillating magnetic field coursing through my nervous system, though I was aware that the much simpler explanation was nervousness. The fear response was an unwelcome though nevertheless predictable factor in self-experimentation. As I stood shivering inside the cramped machine, waiting for the current of electricity to be introduced to my body, I was overcome with the strangest sensation. The dark panels surrounding my body suddenly felt like a hundred eyes staring back at me. Pitch black irises of an unimaginable being, passing judgment on me. Naked, shivering, I was laid bare under its intense, unblinking gaze. I pushed the thought aside, ascribing it to the effects of the electromagnetic field, a fear cage stimulating my mind, then prepared for what came next. The generator was pushed to its limits as the next phase of the sequence began. An energy transfer of nearly one-and-a-half gigawatts per second coursed through the machine’s energy cells, drip-feeding the current down the wires and into my skin, a carefully measured, non-lethal shock meant to act like timespace tracer ink. My system was with flooded with electricity for just a few seconds, but it was enough to send me into agony. Every muscle tensed at once. My jaw locked shut and my body stiffened. Knuckles and knees popped from the intensity of the squeeze. And then it was gone, and I could breathe again. My head swam and my eyes closed. I felt a rising ball of flame in my gut and then a sensation like fire ants crawling through my veins. I became aware of distant screaming, and I considered whether it might be my own cries until I realized it was a woman’s voice. I thought then of Yvette. Why she should be screaming, when it was me disoriented and riddled with pain, made no sense. I opened my eyes. Opened them to utter darkness. Had the fuses blown? Was the machine and the lab beyond it experiencing a power failure? It was a confusing development. The generators had fail-safes in place to avoid such interruptions from occurring, so what other explanations were left? Had I gone blind? Lost all sense of sight? Had I done to myself what I’d nearly done to that childhood friend so many years earlier? But then I became aware of a shape in the darkness just ahead of me, blocking a source of light. There shouldn’t have been anything there except a wall of sensors. Then the shape moved, letting me see the light source. It was a computer screen. My computer screen. I glanced around and realized, with no lack of confusion, that I was standing on the other side of my lab. The shape in front of me, sitting at the computer, was it Yvette? As I reached out to touch it, the skin on my fingers peeled back, as if they were being punished for moving closer to the shape. It felt like dipping my hands in flames. Then my arms began to peel back, too, the fire spreading across my body as the flesh curled and tore away. I tried to scream but the sound lodged in my throat. Then the screen went dark, and I saw the image in it. The reflection of the shape in front of me. My own face. Terrified of the sight of me. Locking eyes with myself. I was back. Back in the night before. In one terrible moment I realized the truth, the explanation for the monsters that had been visiting me throughout my life. I knew what they were. I had to warn myself away. Stop the experiment. Tell me what was waiting the next day. I gathered my breath and opened my bloodied lips, already feeling the teeth shift and the jaw dislocate. “Do!” Blinding light attacked me. I stumbled forward, slipping on grass, my feet wet with my own blood. I was in front of the university library at MIT. Across the great lawn, Yvette was talking to me. Me of a few years earlier. “Not!” I screamed out in the daylight, though I could see by the look of terror on my face that I wasn’t going to look. A moment later the sunlight cut out, and I was looking into my own, younger face, sitting on my college dorm bed with a book in my hands. I felt my body mutating, reconfiguring, like a puzzle box shifting and snapping into new, unrecognizable angles. With my mouth contorting, I struggled to keep speaking, to warn myself. I let out a gurgling, “Turn!” as my younger self screamed back at me. Then he was gone, replaced by a dirty, metal wall. Locked inside a toilet stall, my arms and legs were crushed and reshaped like crumpled paper, an origami animal of popping bones and twisting flesh, and I knew, knew I was out there, my younger self, wearing a graduation gown and a look of terror. “It!” I screamed in agony, my insides erupting out of me. And then suddenly I was choking on dirty water. Drowning in it. I thrashed to be free, fighting to reach air. I burst free of the rancid water and clawed my way out as best I could with my new, twisted configuration of limbs and bones. With bleeding eyes I stared out at myself, a boy of fifteen standing across the yard in an orange vest, scared for his life. I had to finish it. Finish the warning. I ran after him, me, the boy, my bones popping and cracking, shuffling and rearranging my form, every nerve alive with pain, and I screamed, screamed a single sound at him. “On!” He, me, the boy, fell to the ground, backpack on top of him. I took the last few steps, barely able to move anymore, as he fumbled from his stomach and flipped over onto his back to look at me, to see the monster bearing down on him. The terrified boy prayed for me to be gone as I stumbled and crunched toward him, toward me, each step a new torture on my broken body. Then I was nearly on top of him. I looked down on his young, innocent face, taking in the tragic details of the painful existence that waited for him. Then I felt it. Felt my body erasing, an error corrected, the covering up of a path not meant to be taken. The pain was gone first, then any feeling at all. Sights and sounds drifted away, back to the void, the nothingness, the never-ending darkness. Like a blink I vanished.


I knew my demolition would be inevitable. My halls have been left empty for so long now. My pipes are a wet mess of rust and mold. My electrical wiring and conduit have been reclaimed by nature. My insides are nothing more than chewed wires and bird’s nests these days. The carpet on most of my floors has a festering slime in the fibers. Multiple inspectors said they’d never seen anything comparable, and warned against anyone entering. That’s likely why they’re tearing me down. I suppose by this point I’m comparable to a rabid animal, a danger to the rest of the city at large. How did this happen to me? Too weathered to operate, too expensive to fix. A sad, shadow of what I once was. I blame the overnight custodian. Once that pipe burst on the 49 th floor I knew my time was limited, but now it’s closer than I care to consider. Last night was my final sunset. Now here I stand, just before dawn, with engineers preparing me for annihilation. My walls are sweating with fear, but that might be the leaks. My once illustrious halls housed the rich and the famous, back when I was beautiful and bright. My ground floor boasted hosting the highest profile parties in the city. The bulk of my residents, and a percent of the surrounding population, would come for all night gatherings of live music and strong drinks. The bar didn’t close, neither did the casino. The theater on one end had back-to-back comedy shows all night, and the theater on the opposite end showed a variety of films on an endless reel. The ballroom always had the most requested live bands, and the dancing never ceased. For decades people came together and parted like waves in the pool. If only those days could have lasted forever. After a great and wonderful while, the parties wound down, and the city hotspot changed. As always, entertainment demands evolved. On the verge of a new century, I found myself excluded from what was once routine. Long time employees left, and permanent art fixtures were sold. The live music turned sour, along with the regular crowd. Then there was talk of turning me into a hotel. How I dreaded the thought of the short term. The idea of having guests instead of residents made my wallpaper cringe. What happened was far worse. New management stepped in with a brand-new plan. At first, my bricks shuddered with excitement. They studiously cleaned me inside and out, and replaced my heating system with something more modern. I was repainted nicely. They even went as far as giving me a new roof. I expected a new era of excitement. Instead, I witnessed a violent restructuring. My suites, my theaters, the penthouses, even my ballroom; their over scheduled projects ruined all of it. Half-hearted crews came with tiny walls and sloppy work. I endured hurried plumbing, unprofessional installations, and my grand lobby reduced to a hallway with a keypad door. I lived a building’s worst nightmare, or so I’d thought. I was filled with residents once more, but things were different this time. The smoke from their lungs felt toxic to the air. Untrained and uncared for pets had no choice but to use my floors as their toilet. Every stairwell was filled with trash. Entire bags were sometimes thrown from higher floors downward, usually for fun. Disingenuous young adults, college students, and self-destructive entrepreneurs filled my halls, night and day. To my genuine relief, a custodian was hired. He came in with enthusiasm and vigor. Ready to turn the place around and fix up every issue. Sadly, I found that he was only filled with such intensity when fueled by powdered motivation. The worst part was his stimulant exclusively enhanced his words, and did nothing to aid him in getting actual work done. His resume had been a lie. The new custodian barely knew how to operate a broom. He spent most of his time at his workstation laughing at the internet, unless he was explicitly directed to perform a supervised task. A month into his employment he accidently found a pipe connector with a minor leak inside a maintenance closet on the 49 th floor. He tightened it by hand then wrapped a towel around it, and left for the day. Forgetting what he’d discovered by the time he hit the front door. A regrettable amount of time later, the building manager found himself investigating the 49 th floor. There had been numerous complaints about soggy carpets and an incessant dripping. He entered the maintenance closet, and standing water flowed out around his shoes. He bolted in, and ripped the thoroughly saturated towel off of the piping, which also tore loose the connector. The part was replaced and fans were working on drying the floors in less than an hour. Unfortunately, little did the building manager know, further inside the wall, the force of the jerked towel had undone pipe connections further down the line. A constant waterfall formed through a slim channel between walls. The unintentional canal twisted down and through each floor, all the way to the basement. Nearly a year passed before anyone noticed or complained. Other than the custodian who spent many of his overnight shifts dry mopping the basement. By then the majority of the damage had been done. The sun is up now, and I’m prepped for a controlled demolition. There’s a crowd gathering. The end of my time must be soon. I used to constantly wonder what was to come, if another new owner would come along and refurbish me, so I could peak once more. I’d rather be a hotel than simply empty. I could become an office building for all I care, anything. But for my roof to meet the ground, that is a fate no building wants to meet. It took them years to move everyone out, and the basement was flooded long before then. Stubborn tenants that refused to give up their space. One elderly couple claimed they were grandfathered into an old lease and were allowed to stay until they expired. Two floors below a hoarder contently lived among human waste and rotting drywall. These residents, among many others, could not be budged. Notices and advisories did nothing. The owner begging at their welcome mats was of no help either. Finally, after a stroke and a couple police raids, the last of the apartments were vacated one by one. The custodian electrocuted himself trying to steal copper just after I was closed to the public. Apparently, he assumed the power was already off because he made no effort to check the electrical panel. He wasn’t the first or last death within me, but he was by far the most gruesome. I had amazingly maintained a murder free status all those years. Never a rooftop suicide, or séance in room 666 either. I can safely say, there are no hauntings for this interior. The building manager and other employees stopped coming in soon after the custodian’s death, and I was empty for a short time. Then a new community arose. They seemed to be referred to as homeless, but I was happy to house them. All these floors and rooms, most of the furnishings left behind, someone needed to enjoy them. I was redecorated with spray paint murals, and artful collages. Families outfitted their quarters however they liked, and knocked down walls whenever more room was needed for new arrivals. They even found a way to fill the pool with water from the basement during a hot summer. A sense of community had been restored within me for the first time in painfully long. They happily thrived for a decent number of years in their decaying haven. I was devastated when the police forced everyone out one day in a blur of commotion. It happened too fast, so much noise, and then complete silence. A few days later the owner and the old building manager spent time boarding my windows and securing all my doors. They swept the building multiple times to make sure no one was left, except for the rodents in the walls and the fish in the pool. I spent 1000 days empty. Devoid. Alone. Those were the worst days. Bleakness and disrepair. Parts of the higher floors collapsed like vertical dominoes. Nothing inside was the same. Much of the furniture had been drug out and burned in the parking lot, which no longer had asphalt. I find myself disappointed the chandelier in the main hall is long gone. Having it fall would have been spectacular, and something to look forward to. I knew anytime the building manager or owner arrived not to get my hopes up. They were usually boarding a higher up window that had been shot out, or hit by a mighty impressive throw in one instance, if I’m being accurate. The crowd outside is bigger now, and there’s a camera crew. Without these old walls in the way, perhaps something new can flourish. Hopefully they do something nice with the space I occupy. A park or a school maybe, a library would be nice. I hear numbers being praised by the crowd. I’d like to imagine parts of me can be used for something else, but I don’t think it works that way. I just hope someone finds the guy that drowned searching the basement recently. I suppose he thought there would be a safe down there. There's loud popping all around. What an incredible rush.


“Oh, so that’s why it’s called the Rope Pub!” “Haha! Yep, you betchya!” Iris Henness pulled the Reverend into a darkened room, her arm looped around his. He followed hesitantly, letting her lead him. The sight of her red hair, now in a messy bun, bouncing as she marched elated his spirits more than his surroundings. The Rope Pub was a large, matte black building inside and out. Through its large wooden doors, the only remnants of its past as a storage barn, lay a dimly lit dance floor. The lighting was difficult to adjust to, but as his eyes did, the Reverend took note of the pub’s layout. To the left of the entrance was a bar that spanned the entire length of the wall. A shelved display rose to the ceiling behind it holding all manner of liquors, all of which were half empty or more. The people of Birbour sure do love their drinks , Gregory thought, secretly wishing that he did as well. The seating was sparse with only a few benches pressed against the other three walls. Behind the bar, on the corner opposite the main door, was another exit labeled with red paint as the bathroom. Tall tables for resting drinks were scattered throughout the building, and no seats were provided. The mismatched furniture was arranged so that a square section of the room’s center was cleared for dance. From the ceiling rafters crossed thick swaths of rope, the kind used on massive sea vessels, with electrical wiring and bulbs running along their length. “Wow . . .” the Reverend breathed, mesmerized by the twinkling firefly bulbs as Iris led him onto the dance floor. A record player behind the bar played gentle music, the romantic sounds of Glenn Miller, Kay Kyser, and Bing Crosby. A few people mulled about, mostly at the bar or standing at tables, and the dance floor was completely vacant. Iris stopped and the Reverend, in his absentminded state, bumped into her. She grabbed his arms and spun him softly. “Woah there, big fella. Never been in a bar before?” She laughed. The Reverend’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, uh, actually . . . no. No I have not.” He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. It was rare for him to dress in anything other than his pastoral vestment, but when Iris asked him to go out tonight, he scoured his trunk for some casual clothes, eventually settling on a leather jacket, plain shirt, and semi-formal dress pants. His shoes, however, were the same stiff dress shoes that he always donned. All of this unusual wardrobe paired with the new environment to put his hairs on end. Iris’ eyes widened a little, her brow arching. “You can’t be serious?” The Reverend looked away in embarrassment. She pulled his cheek to face her gingerly, like one of her precious books. “Hey, don’t worry about it. There’s a first time for everything.” She smiled reassuringly. The Reverend returned a shy grin. “Care to dance?” Iris asked as the record switched to a slow, lovely song about summer love. “I probably shouldn’t,” he responded, “It’s not very priestly of me to even be here . . . let alone to dance.” There was disappointment in his voice, Iris thought, and a certain longing to try it. She could tell that he liked the song and hoped, somewhat reasonably, that he felt similarly toward his company. “Hey, Hugh-” His dark eyes, shrouded with bags and worry, stopped their searching and fell on her. “Yeah?” He whispered, unused to his own name. She guided his hands to her sides and looped her own hands around his neck. “Why don’t you put the weight of the world away for a while? Hmm? Be here with me, just me, and show me you.” Her eyes were pleading, the Reverend frozen in place. They had only known each other for a few days, spending most of their shared time in the archives with Trenton, but, on the frequent occasion that Iris needed reprieve from the Doctor’s arrogance, she’d join him on visitation. With her, the hike up and down Birbour’s only street was not nearly so daunting and the locals were much friendlier. In addition, the woman herself made pleasant company. Her family was southern, hailing from South Carolina, and her accent reminded Hugh of home. Iris’ crystal-blue eyes were oceans in and of themselves, telling stories reminiscent of Hugh’s time with Captain Malcolm traveling to her from Juneau. As he’d stand at the bow of the M.M.S. Monet, staring out over the frothy blue waves, he’d find himself completely overwhelmed with the love of God’s creation. Likewise, he felt similarly when looking at her. “Okay,” he finally relented, and the two were off, swirling in slow circles around and around the dance floor. Her feet matched his as they discovered Hugh’s natural rhythmic aptitude. He led in a series of four, not so much concerned with the music as with the woman he now tightly held. She was positively breathtaking , glowing even in the dim light of the Rope Pub. As they twirled, the patrons of the bar abandoned their drinks to watch. Even the bartender, who was dutifully wiping the counter, paused to observe the spectacle. The music swelled, increasing tempo as the two spun ever faster in ever more complex patterns, tossing each other to and fro like wild, elegant animals. As the last note vanished into the rafters, soaking into the wood and ropes, Hugh held Iris off her feet, her weight completely at his mercy, and the two stared into each other’s eyes. His were dark, foreboding, and full of emotion. Contrarily, hers were bright blue stars beneath a cascading fire. They righted themselves as their audience applauded. Hugh’s cheeks erupted into flames. “Oh, yes, well, that was-” “Amazing?!” Iris exclaimed, latching onto him as she stumbled forward, perhaps purposefully. “Sorry! I’m still a little dizzy!” She pushed back from him. “You’re a natural! Are you sure you haven’t danced before?” He had. “Nope. Never,” Hugh shook his head, smiling broadly. His heart still danced, matching the rhythm in her chest. “I suppose it was beginner’s luck.” “Beginner’s luck? Hah! And I’m nine feet tall.” Iris responded disbelievingly. She shook her head incredulously, smiling. “One way or the other, we’re definitely making this a regular thing.” Hugh nodded. “Absolutely.” “Hey, you two. That was quite the show you put on there,” the bartender called. “Come get a drink. We don’t get quality entertainment in Birbour often. Most people here wouldn’t know a half-step from a whole note.” Exchanging grateful glances, the two approached the bar. The bartender was a monster of a man, at least a head taller than Hugh and twice as wide. Hair poked out from beneath a split collar, a beard spilled out across his front. His eyes were brown and his face was wrinkled from exposure like leather. Despite the gruff exterior, he offered a hospitable grin. “I think that display is worth a few drinks,” he said while pulling two glasses off a rack. “Name’s Morgan. Morgan Muller.” Mr. Muller poured Iris and Hugh a drop of bourbon. Iris downed the shot without hesitation, Hugh pushed it away. “I appreciate the gesture,” the Reverend slipped onto a bar stool, “But I don’t drink liquor . . . or anything else fermented, for that matter.” Mr. Muller nodded. “A man of the cloth ought not to anyhow,” he said, taking the glass back and downing the caramel liquid himself. “Iris tells me you’re helping look for Adam?” A man down the bar lifted his head from a drunken nap, cleared his throat, and slurred, “That’d be me . . .” “Doctor Trenton! You look like death!” Iris exclaimed. She rushed off to check on him. “Mr. Muller, can you get him some water?” “Water?!” Muller stifled a laugh. “In my bar? No, thank you!” “I don’t need it,” Trenton straightened himself, puffing out his chest with pride. “I am a man and can hold my liquor!” He burped loudly. Iris waved a thin hand before her nose and made a disgusted face. “Oh, Lord! Have you been drinking sewage or liquor?” “Both!” Trenton slurred again, swaying as he burst into a fit of laughter. Mr. Muller grunted disapprovingly. The Reverend joined the Doctor and Archivist down the bar, the Bartender mirroring their movement across the counter. “So you’re the investigator. I took you as just another drunkard seeking refuge Alaska, thinking they’d find peace in the wilderness out here as the Sheriff did,” Muller commented. Trenton raised a finger to protest but shook his head. “I am here for science, my good man.” “Then all hope is lost.” The Bartender's was was already set in a deep frown but, despite all laws of physics, it grew even deeper. “Not at all!” Trenton objected. “I’ve been pouring over the archives all week while these two,” he gestured to Hugh and Iris, “flirted across town!” They blushed, exchanging nervous glances, but did not respond. The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Regardless, I have been fortunate in my findings.” “What’ve you got? A lead?” Muller asked excitedly, remembering his fond conversations with Adam Peterson, the missing meteorologist and Trenton’s old college friend. “All roads lead to one David Rottenburough. From the closing of the newspaper, the opening of the mine, and the disappearance of the natives . . . all of it points to him! I ought to march right up to his estate right now and . . . and . . .” As the alcohol reconquered his brief sobriety, Doctor Trenton lost consciousness, slamming his head against the bar as he descended into a dizzying slumber. Iris tried to catch him, but failed, curling into herself and gasping. “Rottenburough?” Muller mumbled. “Blaming other’s for your problems again, Muller?” A young man entered the bar followed by three others. “No, Johnny.” Muller tensed up. “You boys here to cause trouble again?” “I sure hope not,” the Reverend joked, extending a hand to the men as they approached. “I’m-” “The bastard trying to steal my Iris?” The youngest of the group, barely a man and with short red hair, slapped his hand away. “I am not your property, Matthew! I told you this already!” Iris stepped between Hugh and the men. Matthew Flurry reached out to grab her, the stench of liquor pouring off him. It was the Reverend’s turn to intercept. He gently pulled Iris’ shoulders, placing her behind him and putting himself between Matthew and her. “We don’t want any trouble, son, but I think Iris wants some space,” he stated, fighting a rising anger. Iris huffed indignantly, pushing the Reverend to the side. His eyes opened wide with surprise. “I can handle a bar fight, Hugh!” She proudly proclaimed before smacking Matthew across the face. He was thrown to the side and the sound of skin-on-skin contact filled the bar as the record player scratched to a stop. Hugh was stunned. Trenton chuckled sleepily, mumbling something incomprehensible. The other men, Matthew’s brothers, stared slack-jawed. As they regained their composure, each reddening in the face, they began to clench their fists. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Lucky Flurry, the second youngest, said. “Bad idea,” Johnny Flurry, the oldest, chided. “Uh oh!” Mark Flurry smiled dumbly. Matthew spat, throwing a punch at Iris. She ducked and his fist landed squarely on the Reverend’s nose. He fell back against the bar, his rage taking him. “Sorry!” Iris yelled, grabbing a glass and shattering it against Lucky’s ugly mug. He fell into an unconscious heap. The other two, now fully understanding of the situation, descended. The following chaos ensued. Iris shouted at the top of her lungs, “Bar fight!!” Before dancing around the Flurry Boys, throwing punches and taking them in turn. Hugh, red in the face, started boxing Mark. Some strangers across the dance floor, seeing what amounted to be a professional tournament, started exchanging hands. Did they have a reason? Most likely no , thought Hugh as Mark’s massive fist connected with his cheek. He spat a tooth to the ground, wiping his mouth. Before long, even Muller hopped over the bar amidst the shouting and flailing bodies, intent on protecting what remained of his bar. Doctor Malone Trenton slept peacefully on a stool. Iris fought with the fervor of a Viking. Hugh took more hits than he delivered. What had started as a romantic evening turned into an all-or-nothing bar fight. Before long, the Reverend lost sight of Iris, being pushed instead toward the bathroom exit by Mark. As his back met the wall, one last punch sent him flying through the barely secured wood. The Reverend landed squarely in the mud and rain, gasping for air with his vision blurry. Mark took a step toward him, “I think you should let little Matthew have Iris. You aren’t very good at fighting, Pastor.” Hugh coughed. “Sorry, I’m not practiced in bar fights.” “I can tell,” Mark responded menacingly, his voice cold and low as he took a step toward Hugh, preparing to kick him. The Reverend crawled away from his attacker desperately. SMASH ! Glass cascaded like fireworks from around Mark’s head. The big oaf smiled, swaying on his feet before falling like a board next to Hugh. Behind him stood Doctor Trenton, struggling to stay upright in his drunken stupor. “Nobody . . . puts a hand . . . on my . . . brother,” he proclaimed before falling with a mighty SPLAT into the mud. Hugh pushed himself to his feet, a subtle bloodied smile on his face, and grabbed his brother. After pulling him to his feet, he placed Trenton’s arm over his shoulder to support his weight. “And here I thought you didn’t like me,” he chuckled. Something sounded behind him as he approached the door. There were woods behind the Rope Pub, the exterior lights flickered and plunged the brothers and unconscious fellon into darkness. BANG! BANG! BANG! The sound came in threes. The hairs on the Reverend’s neck stood on end as he faced the abyss. The rain created a nearly impenetrable sheet that separated the Rope Pub and Birbour from the seemingly endless Plyset Forest. The taiga’s loomed like shadowed giants that lorded over the Reverend and Doctor. Beyond them lay the fate of Adam Peterson and the harrowing tale that was contained within his diary. Mystery and horror intertwined as something grabbed a hold of Hugh Gregory’s soul, vying for it like a menacing spirit. BANG! BANG! BANG! The characteristic sound of something heavy, a rock or some form of solid earth, connecting with the hardwood of a tree filled the gaps between the rain's pitter-patters. Hugh scanned the darkness, backing toward the Rope Pub slowly with fear in his heart. Behind the pub, hidden in the darkness about ten to twelve feet above the ground, some tucked between leaves and limbs, others leaning out from tree trunks, floated countless pairs of fireflies that watched the Reverend.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same, apart from the plaque declaring what she remembered as ‘Woolwicke’ was now ‘Little Beam’. The white painted double garage with its navy blue painted roller shutter doors. The neighbour’s lamppost she used to be able to see peeping over the hedge when playing in the garden, making believe Mr Tumnas was waiting for her under it, even in midsummer. The conservatory she could see from between the bars of the wrought iron front gate. The shadow inside the conservatory that could well have been her mother waiting anxiously for her eight-year-old self to be delivered home from school by the child’s father. A shadow which suddenly moved. Joanne gasped, took a couple of steps backwards and pretended to be busy looking at the map on her phone, which she hadn’t needed for the last mile and a half. Nothing had changed about the country lane she’d been walking down either - the same twists and turns where parents had taught her to walk facing oncoming traffic (tractors seem so slow until as a pedestrian you nearly barge headfirst into one coming round a turn), the same corner of the field where the farmer’s horse would sometimes be standing, hopeful of an apple. The same elm tree she used to play in, pretending hedgehogs, mice and birds queueing up to move into the miniature treehouses she built for them. That elm tree had been as far as she was allowed from the house - where mother could still keep an eye on her from the kitchen window. Joanne turned to the path that led past more fields to Crook Woods. The name had thrilled her when she and her parents had moved to the area. Although she was scared when her dad first suggested (“to give your mum a break”) they take a walk to see them. He had to gently explain that the woods weren’t full of thieves. Crook could mean the stick belonging to a shepherd, or the crook of your elbow, he suggested, tickling Joanne in hers. She’d squealed. He’d laughed. Mother tutted. Mother didn’t like sudden loud noises. Ironic seeing as she could be (and often was) the loudest of the three, after a few glasses of red. The glasses she hadn’t smashed when screaming at her husband, unable to let some past grievance go. Joanne had never got to the bottom of the mystery, but was pretty sure it was because her dad had an ex-wife, and as would become startling apparent over the coming years, mother had to come first. Joanne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hearing the crunch of small pebbles kicked up onto the grass by passing tractors and reminding her of how her cat, Barley, had used to shuffle his bottom after padding gently across those pebbles two and a half decades ago, then diving for some poor creature he’d spotted scurrying in the hedge. That was before the rules changed and he was only allowed out on a lead around the garden. He’d come back early one morning after having spent the night in the field with the sheep, his miaow having evolved to a bleat, which to mother’s ears may as well have been effing and blinding. Readjusting her rucksack straps, Joanne began trudging up towards the woods. She turned her phone off. She owed it to him not to be distracted. She’d been burying herself in the lives of others for too long, be they real or fictional. As she walked, she kept glancing at her feet. Remembering how she used to walk at a fast pace to match daddy’s long strides in the ruts formed by vehicles, while he walked on the wider grassy middle. She felt her bag bouncing softly off her back and thought of how she and her dad would fish the first of the sandwiches mother had wrapped up for their journey. An abundance which suggested mother was thinking (perhaps hoping) they were walking to the next county. They’d eat ham sandwiches, cut into small squares, to lighten the load. Plus it was a small act of rebellion at the strict mealtimes that punctuated their lives. The woods were growing larger now. She picked up the pace, but still went carefully. No-one around to scoop her up if she tripped. She thought of the time she fell and called out “Daddy!” - a big deal as she’d just recently started calling him ‘Dad’. The children at her new school made fun of her for talking about her ‘Daddy’. So she tried to change. “Ever the people pleaser,” 33-year-old Joanne muttered darkly. She listened to the call of some bird and kicked herself for not paying enough attention when her father had described what breed of bird made what cry. The woods became a smudge. She forced herself to think of other things - reminding herself to take cash out later for the B&B that only accepted that form of payment, to look up train times for the return journey, and whether she fancied a bath or a shower later. After thinking and blinking, finally the woods stood in sharp focus again. She inhaled deeply as she drew up to them, as if standing in a shuttle doorway before stepping off into deep space without an oxygen tank. Joanne walked into the darkness. As she tried to remember the way to their tree, she could hear her younger self beseeching her to slow down, to look around. She smiled as she recalled how she used to like to stop and investigate every little thing while her dad had walked on ahead, calling out intermittently for her to keep up. For Joanne this was a day of exploration outside her yellow painted bedroom walls. For him, it was a chance to exercise to counteract the consumption of “your father’s bedtime snacks" as her mother had dubbed them. Whiskey and bowls of salted peanuts. “More like ‘coping mechanisms’,” Joanne said to a wooden post at the stile she’d paused at. No big hairy hand to help her over it. A flash of red caught her eye. Joanne hunkered down to inspect it, wincing as her knees popped. She picked up a twig to wipe a leaf off the object. Shotgun cartridge. From clay pigeon shooting, came dad’s explanation in the back of her head, followed by “best not tell your mum you found this. She’d have kittens.” That imagery never failed to make Joanne giggle and she could feel the mirth bubbling up in her again. She briefly considered strangling it, but then just let it take over. There was calamity in the trees above as a flock of birds flew off in fright at the eruption, making Joanne laugh even harder. She stood up unsteadily, wiped her eyes, carried on. She was lost but didn’t care. She knew from many solo expeditions if you just keep walking for long enough, you’ll get somewhere. She played with the cartridge, admiring how the occasional streak of sunlight that filtered through the canopy ignited the gold at one end. She would look up later whether it could be recycled. Waste being more of a pressing issue to her now than it was to the little girl who left dozens blooming in the woods in the mid-1990s. She continued letting her feet take her where they wanted. A pity it wasn’t bluebell season. Seeing carpets of the merrily bobbing trumpet shaped petals always filled her with delight. She tried to forget how mother had berated them for bringing back a posy, adamant they were a ‘protected’ species and asking why they wanted her to get in trouble with the police. Interrupting her chain of thoughts was the tree , standing with boughs open in welcome, exactly how she remembered. Joanne stood still for a moment, afraid if she blinked it might disappear. When it didn’t, she walked slowly towards it, shrugging off her backpack. She unrolled and laid her blanket down between the knotted roots (“the witches they buried alive instead of burned” he’d suggested in a mock horror B movie narrator’s voice, one distant October). All their walks, whatever direction, had brought them circling round to this tree. Joanne had been certain this would be the case even now. Joanne sat for a while there, resting her legs, while the showreel of memories did the opposite. She let them play. “It’s time, dad,” she said eventually, rising to her feet. She took the box out of the bag. Even though she had difficulty finding the right words, the right opportunities, to tell him when he was still alive how much having at least one parent who enjoyed her company meant to her, she knew he had known already. As she watched his ashes swirl and dissipate, specks blending into the network of roots, others clouds floating up to settle into the leaves and branches, a peace seemed to hug her heart and confirm that truth. He had known, and she was loved, and that was all that mattered.


After dozens of swipes, multiple conversations that just evaporate, someone has said yes. The uphill battle to align schedules and convince yourself that you actually want to leave the house and spend money will be worth it. You think to yourself, maybe this will be the one, she seems cool. At the very least it’s always good practice to put yourself out there. You settle on drinks at a nearby bar that you’re familiar with. You’ve already talked about what she does for work and know she’s big into hiking just by looking at her photos. You might be a bit worried because it took 2 photos to scroll through to decipher which one she is. Luckily she filled out her profile thoroughly and you are aligned on politics, religion, and both went to big schools. Knowing this is nice, but always feel like it’s jumping the gun and you just have less to find out about the person later. However, you’re not complaining because you rather know now then $35 dollars of drinks later that she’s a religious conservative. Waking up knowing you have something to do after work always makes the day go by slower. You make sure to send a confirmation text in the morning to make sure you aren’t looking forward to something the whole day only to be let down later. She says she’s still on and “looking forward to it”. You hope she is being sincere. You decide to work from home, this will make you avoid any potential obstacles for when it gets closer. In-between meetings you’re still scrolling through the app and swiping on people. It makes you feel dirty, if your parents had a date scheduled they weren’t actively at the bar trying to pick up someone different before the date that night. You close the app and get back to work, or the appearance of work. Lunch finally comes around and you decide to start looking in your closet to feel out what you will wear. You check the weather to see what type of outfit you should wear. You get sweaty for a date when you get nervous, plus it's going to be really humid. Probably going to wear something dark, it will make you look thinner anyways. At least that's what you’ve been told. You don’t want to be too casual, but it is just drinks. You end up picking a navy blue collared shirt that you know hides your pit stains and some 7 in gray shorts to show off those legs. You know you’re going to wear your Allbirds and will have some sort of patterned socks that you can figure out later. Having your clothes laid out feels like one less thing you have to worry about. Your friend texts you asking to hang out after work. Sometimes you feel like telling friends about a future date, sometimes it’s easier to just lie so if there is no second date you don’t have to explain it to someone else. This time you tell them, this girl seems cool and your hopes have slowly been getting higher as the day goes on and gets closer to the date. It’s 6:15 and there's 45 minutes until the date starts. Even though the drive is only 5 minutes away you are already dressed and are now staring at yourself in the mirror. Wet your hair to make it so it doesn’t look so poofy, brush your teeth, and spray on some cologne. You’re feeling ready. You feel confident and psych yourself up thinking who wouldn’t want to go out with you. You say bye to your roommate and leave your apartment 20 minutes early. You want to make sure you find parking and get a good table. You don’t want to let her know you got there that early though, so you sit in your car and only get out 10 minutes before the date starts. The host asks for how many, you proudly say two. You sit so you can face the door to see them walk in. You hope that they look like their pictures and don’t have a weird voice. It’s 6:58 and you’re scrolling Twitter after checking her profile again. You see the door open and she walks in. You wave her over.


My mind in a timeless void. It seems like I've been here forever and not at all. And then it comes, like waking from a dream, it is all too sudden and all too soon. A single drop of ink in clear water and it hurts. Am I being pulled back into the world? A violent tug, a siphoning of my essence. The ink spreads and this time it hurts even more. Then, a sudden pause from the pull on my soul. A momentary respite. I am still in the void. It is quiet again. Maybe I am not called. Maybe- I shriek and scream like a babe that draws its first breath. I can almost feel the air filling the lungs that I don't inhabit yet. It is still the void that I scream into. Then it fades but like a pendulum it raises on the other side. I can now hear my scream filling an air I am still not yet fully part of. The void now disappears like it had never been and I am introduced to a new kind of darkness. My scream now feels more.. carnal. More physical. More alive. My blood awakens and it feels like a lightning strike in my veins. A brief moment of silence as the feeling dissipates and then I shriek once more as the pain finds a way to show me the true extent of its fury. His eternal bones cracked audibly and his overcoat threw centuries of dust into the air as he jolted up from his stone throne. Echoes of his scream still bounced around him. It was dark. He blinked open his eyelids and regained his vision. He cracked the bones in his hands and back and just stood in place, slowly looking left and right, still stretching. He could feel the blood that his heart was pumping and it was as strong and sharp as he had remembered. He took a step forward and leapt a few meters down onto the old and broken stone floor, staggering upon landing. As he did, dust rose around him in a thick fog. He looked forward and with a concrete step started towards the exit. He pushed the large rolling stone that covered the exit, introducing strands of bright moonlight into the cave. Helios stepped outside and the moment he did, the harsh mountain air filled his lungs making him cough out dust. Although the sensation was deeply uncomfortable, he found this almost comedic. Almost. His lungs and body now filled with oxygen and it was an exhilarating shock to his system. He stood outside for some time, with every breath taking in more oxygen than letting out. 'Ahhh.. I had almost forgotten how air and blood makes a body feel,' Helios murmured to himself. 'I need water.' He scanned the surroundings slowly from left to right, filling his nose with air. Nothing. Like a dog, he then blew air out of his nose, producing another considerable puff of dust. His next inhalation was effective enough. Resolutely, he started to climb the rock-face behind him. His movements were deft, almost cat-like and he made no error. He reached the ledge quick and as it opened a new horizon, his eyes flashed with hunger as they fixed on a cold stream further up the hill. He didn't walk, nor did he run. He took a great leap toward it, landing close to it with a strong thud. He then stretched one final time and walked to the stream where he washed his hands and his face. The dust and muck that had gathered on his skin during his centuries long hibernation had now been mostly wiped. Now, as if saving the best part of the meal for the last, in eager anticipation, he cupped his right hand into a funnel and leaning on his left he let the stream flow to his mouth. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes and truly enjoyed the clear, cold mountain stream. After he was finished, he sat down next to the simmering flow and stared at the moon. 'Oh, moon, would you know? Why have I been awakened from my slumber so?' He sighed and stared at the wet glow on his hands.


The world ended and nobody noticed. It didn’t even happen all that quickly. It had been years in coming, if you can believe it. Certainly the roots of the thing can be traced all the way back to that time we reportedly crucified an innocent man because we humans are just like that sometimes. The truth is both Oppenheimer and T. S. Elliot were wrong, the world did not end in a bang, nor even a whimper. It just ended, like it always was going to end, the only way it could end, as certain as the dot comes after the sentence. So ultimate, so undeniable, that for a while, no one even noticed. It was a culmination of sorts. Just enough went wrong that to repair it was simply beyond our means. In a couple weeks most government secrets were forcibly uncovered. Turns out our dear leaders hoarded a lot of technological advancements. For what purpose, I guess us common folks will never find out, but at least, in the end, whether out of desperation or genuine kindness, the highest tier of society revealed to everyone what they’d been working on all along. Cures for illnesses that until then had no cure, affordable renewable energy on a massive scale, even novel forms of voting, and modifications to current structures of government so drastic that what would have been left could not have truly been called a democracy. But none of these things were enough. It was far, far too late. I guess one of the most depressing statements was the one our own president gave at his final press conference before he bit the bullet. He said that if we had just reconciled certain conflicts both within the country and between nations no sooner than two years ago, then the end would have been averted. Just two years ago. I wonder what it was that kept us from surviving. An assassinated military official in the middle east? An oil spill in the gulf? An innocent man shot in the street by a cop over a misunderstanding? The world ended the way a domino chain ends. There is no arguing it, no fighting against it. It could only go one way, and though it might appear otherwise, the first domino is as important as the second to last. We could have grabbed a piece, pulled it out of the chain before the wave hit, but we were all too distracted by greed, and progress, and power over others. Meanwhile, the dominos kept falling. We don’t even know what sound the final domino will make, because we won’t be here to hear it. Does the end of the world make a sound if no one is there to hear it? I’m not totally sure, but my heart is convinced most of my extended family is dead. My wife and my daughter are with me, at least, and that makes me glad despite everything. My little girl is still too young to understand what is happening, and seems to be content in playing with her costumes in her room. I can hear her laughing as I type this. She’s probably spinning in front of her mirror, dressed as Batgirl, her favorite superhero. My wife is downstairs, cooking. She’s taken the bull by the horns, the love of my life. Told me she wants to make this meal a special one. I doubt we’ll get to have another one together. We should all be much more worried than we are. I’ve seen animals struggle out of traps until they tear their limbs off, even when there is no hope of escape, even when the hunter is upon them. But maybe we humans are just too aware. We know that the time to worry about it is long past, and now there’s nothing left to be done. We are living doomed lives in a doomed world, and know it. Why struggle? It would only make things worse. There are a few, of course, who are still trying to work out solutions. I commend those people. I was never one to give up on a challenge, but this was the ultimate test to my will. I’m not glad to have given up. I’m not sad, either, or angry, or depressed, or remorseful. I’m just waiting. We are all just waiting. The last domino in the chain of the human race is not the last domino in the line; the last domino was somewhere down the line, far enough that there was enough time for us to collectively pluck it out, to stop the wave, halt the end and survive. That we might prepare for another dooming domino and remove that one as well, and so on. Had we ever removed such a one? Had we as a human race stopped events that could have hastened the chain? I don’t know much about history, but I’m willing to give us some credit. The thing is, if we did do it once, it only means we just put the domino back where it was, toppled it, and started it all again. Because we didn’t learn. Because we were distracted. Because we were petty. In her room, my daughter laughs. My wife opens the door, and my little Batgirl runs out, holding up her cape. Dinner is ready, my wife says. I realize I was wrong when I said I wasn’t sad or angry. I realize I should have fought. I should have done something at least. I should have nudged that domino just a tiny bit. Then maybe this wouldn’t be our last dinner together. But now it’s too late.


“I always knew you hid to protect those you love, but I never thought I’d see you like this,” Anna wept. His blood was underneath him, staining the boardwalk. As much as Anna wanted to grieve properly, her college graduation was the next day. She threw herself into her bed as her navy blue short dress and her cap and gown stared her down. “I will honor you by finding who did this and why,” The graduation was swift, a blur for Anna thankfully. She went straight to Danny’s wake. Anna looked around and sat. How could they have pulled this off so fast? The police say it was a heart attack, with Danny’s history it’s possible, but that doesn’t explain the amount of blood. “Do you need a shoulder?” she heard. “Who are you?” she asked. “Danny’s Mom, I am so sorry we had to meet like this,” the person said. “Please sit, and I’m sorry too,” Anna scooted over in the pews. “It's a shame that he never heard my speech because if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have graduated,” “I choose to he sees anything now,” his Mom handed Anna a box. “What is this?” Anna asked. “Your graduation present,” his Mom smiled. “It feels wrong to open it now,” Anna sighed. “I understand,” her Mom squeezed her shoulder. This mood contradicted the beautiful weather. She sat on the edge and pondered on the what-ifs or possibly why this happened. “Annie?” she heard. She stood up and froze. “I don’t understand, how are you?-,” “I want you to honor me by doing everything we wanted... not bitterness,” he walked closer to her. “How can I do it without you?” she wept. “Please, it's the only way my soul can rest,” he urged. When he disappeared, she fell into a slumber. Joseph, an old friend, heard of the news. After no responses to his texts, he went to the wake, and that was when the search began. Joseph and Danny’s Mom looked everywhere. It was the summit of the day when they found her. “Anna, can you hear me?” Joseph asked. “Fuck, how long was she out here?” “I need you to not move her; do you know how to do CPR?” her mother asked. “I got my certification this morning,” he answered. “I’m going to call 911,” she dialed. He started as he tried to calm down. “Come on, we can’t lose you too,” Danny gasped. “Not on my watch,” The ambulance came quickly. Anna woke up with her head bandaged. “I don’t know if I should scold you for worrying me so bad or hug you because you’re alive,” she heard. “Danny?” she asked. “He’s still dead,” Joseph said. “Jo, what are you doing here?” she asked. “We found you at the boardwalk unconscious,” he asked. “I was sulking about Danny and I swear I saw him,” she sighed. “Oh honey, scoot over you need a hug,” he sighed. “I do,” she said. He squeezed her. “I am so sorry, but I’m going to kill you if you ever do this to me again,” “Noted,” she sighed. “What did he say?” he asked. “He wants me to do everything we planned, she smiled. “Is that what you want to do?” he asked. “Nah, I want to find out what happened and torture their ass,” she admitted. “I hear ya loud and clear, but I have a proposal,” he said. “I’m listening,” she said. “We can do both,” he said. “I don’t get it?” she responded. “We find out what happened and we will do everything you wanted to do,” he explained. “You’d do that for me?” she asked. “I would, I think you’re very cool,” he said. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re welcome,” he said. “So what’s it going to be?” he asked. “I’m in,” she smiled. “Wanna have breakfast together?” he asked. “It can’t be morning yet,” she looked at the clock. “I meant when you’re out of the hospital and more settled,” he chuckled. “Oh, but I’m not much of a breakfast person,” she answered. “Fair enough, how about you think of something and we meet up then?” he asked. “K,” she snuggled against him and fell asleep. It was time for damage control when Anna had more energy. “You’re coming home now!” her grandmother pointed out. “Granny, please, I have no place there,” she begged. “You can live with me,” her grandmother plead her case. “You know that isn’t what I meant,” Anna sighed. “I went out of state to explore,” she added. “Your boyfriend is dead and with your degree; why are you still there?” her grandmother asked. “That is not how you convince someone to come home, you know?” she hung up. There was a knock. “Can I come in?” Joseph asked. “Sure,” she sighed. “I could hear you barking from down the hall. Who were you arguing with?” he asked. “My grandmother wants me to come home, and I don’t want to,” she explained. “So, it’s going home to be miserable or be homeless?” he asked. “Afraid so,” she said. “Well, I have another proposal,” he sat. “Tell me,” she said. “Go home until Monday, it’ll do you some good while I set up my new apartment with you as my roommate,” he said. “A weekend in my hometown is too long; besides, isn’t it a little weird if I move in with a guy after my boyfriend died?” she asked. “After what's happened, it won’t be too bad to at least try,” “If you don’t enjoy living with me, I can find you a place of your own,” he said. “I’m in,” she sighed. Anna was still unsure about how this would play out. Is this want Danny wants? What if Danny's mistaken? Is this what I want? What was Danny hiding from me and why? Can I trust the answers I'll receive? Will I ever be able to move on? There was a knock on the wall that grounded Anna. She turned her attention to a bright-eyed, Joseph. "Morning," she yawned. "Hi," he smiled. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Like my soul could leave my body," she answered. "Didn't sleep at all huh?" he asked. "Impossible," she yawned again. "You can sleep in the car," he guided her out of the dorm room and she turned off the light.


As I sit quietly in the attic of the house I rent, I have my security cameras running on various screens on tables in a semi-circle in the center of the room. Out the front window, I have a video recorder filming the house and the street diagonal from me. I am looking through social media and making notes on hobbies and friends and relatives, really any information I can find about him. I have millions of pictures of him from infancy to the man he is today. He had been dating Tiffany, But he found flirtatious messages on her phone that made him aware of the affair she was having. Of course, she cried and denied it But the proof was there on her phone for him to see. I know because I put it there. He was so hurt and mad when he ended their 3-year relationship, He had even proposed to her. But now she was old news. He met me by accident, I was at the mailbox and had my arms full of packages I had ordered, I knew his schedule and I knew that at 3:10 p.m. after a long day at work he would pull in his driveway and walk down to the mailbox and grab his mail. I was there fumbling with the packages and trying not to drop the " Fragile" packages I had in my arms. Being a Gentleman he offered to help me to my door. He grabbed a few of the "Fragile" packages and left me with just one package to carry. I invited him into my home and asked him to sit them on the dining room table. I introduced myself. I thanked him and introduced myself as Meredith Grim, giving him my shy innocent smile. He said he was glad he could help and introduced himself as Anton Mission, This I already knew Anton Leonie Mission, Born April 1. To a single Mom Lisbon Mission. I knew she had worked two jobs to pay the bills and had been a good mother. They had not been rich, but he never did without. I had a smooth Jazz CD playing softly and he mentioned that it was one of his favorite artists. I invited him to stay for dinner as the homemade lasagna was just getting ready to come out of the oven, I had already made Garlic Bread and was popping it into the oven as I pulled the Lasagna out of the oven, The fresh salad and a nice bottle of wine were chilling in the fridge. He accepted my invitation for dinner I knew Lasagna was one of his favorites. I quickly set the small table for two and grabbed two wine glasses from the rack. I asked him to open the wine and pour it for us while I got the salad from the fridge and scooped us some into our bowls. The Lasagna smelled delicious, I grabbed the garlic bread out of the oven and put It in a breadbasket. I sat the lasagna on the table with the bread and our bowls of salads. We sat to enjoy our dinner and I softly asked if it would offend him if I said Grace before our meal, Of course, I knew this would please him. We quietly talked while eating our dinner. He talked about growing up with only his mom and I talked about growing up all alone in foster care. After dinner, I cleared the table and we quickly rinsed the dishes and loaded them into my dishwasher and he Thanked me for dinner, He said it was the best night he had had in a very long time. He excused himself and said that he had a ton of paperwork to finish before he went to bed tonight. I gave him my cell phone number in case he needed anything and He promised to have me over for dinner soon to return the favor. I made sure to finish my work early each day and made sure I was at the mailbox each day just as he was checking his mail. It had been a week since we "met" and I had not heard from him except a quick " Hello" at the mailbox. I invited him over for dinner again on Friday, I told him I was not wanting to celebrate my birthday alone. He agreed to come over at about 6 p.m. Friday night. I got up early Friday, Went to the store to buy some nice steaks, fresh vegetables, and real potatoes. I was going to grill up the steaks and baked potatoes and fresh grilled vegetables. I even bought a Boston Cream Cake from a bakery, Put it in a cake holder so He could see My Homemade Birthday cake. I bought a nice bottle of wine and put it to chill. I got my hair and nails done and even bought a new dress that would accentuate My assets. He wrang the bell at exactly 6 p.m. and I showed him in and showed him out the sliding door onto my patio. I had a small table already set up, had the wine in an ice bucket, and was just pulling the vegetables off the grill. I put the steak and baked potatoes and some veggies on his plate and then I fixed my own. He made a comment on how delicious it smelled and how amazing the cake on the divider in the kitchen looked. We visited quietly while eating and he told me he had been really busy at work the previous week and was glad I had invited him to dinner tonight, He said he had finished a huge project today before the deadline on Monday so he was happy to celebrate my birthday with me. I told him I had also been busy writing some reviews and things, really boring things and I was happy for the weekend. We finished our dinner and headed inside to clean up the dishes and I was going to cut my homemade Boston Cream Cake. I told him to make himself comfortable in the living room and I would bring our cake if he could carry our glasses and the bottle of wine in there. Once I settled on the small sofa beside him, We ate our cake and drank our wine while listening to yet another favorite artist of his playing softly on the stereo. He wished me a Happy Birthday and gave me a small box wrapped in silver paper with a bow. I gently unwrapped the bracelet he gave me and he helped me put it on. We talked for hours about our hobbies and he was amazed we had so many in common. When my Grandfather clock struck midnight he joking said he had better go home before his Cinderella turned into a Pumpkin or something. I gave him a hug and a small kiss on the cheek and thanked him for the bracelet and for coming to dinner and for making my birthday a happy one. We got into the habit of sharing dinner a few times a week and we learned all about each other. When He wasn't with me I was watching him. I followed him and I had put a tracer on his phone while he was in the bathroom and so I knew where he was every minute of the day. Sometimes of a night I would let myself into his house and watch him sleep, He looked like an Angel when he slept, So perfect. He confided in me about three months into our relationship that he enjoyed my company and he felt like he could talk to me about anything. He said it was like having a sister he could share things with. He never tried to kiss me, even though I prayed he would and I tried several times but he would redirect his face at the last minute so I kissed his cheek a lot. He told me he was going to be gone on vacation for a week with his college guy friends and asked me to keep an eye on his house If he only knew. I slept in his bed every night he was gone, wore his clothes, used his shampoo and body wash, and brushed my teeth with his toothbrush every night. I was in Heaven. I hacked his computer, went through all his personal stuff and I blocked emails and phone numbers on his home telephone. When Sunday came and he got home at about 9 p.m. I had him a plate in the oven keeping warm and had written him a note saying I hope he had a good vacation and that I would see him at about 6 p.m. the following night for pizza and movie night. I told him I hope he enjoyed the dinner I had left him, that I didn't know if he would stop on his way home to eat or be hungry, I told him if he wasn't hungry he could refrigerate it for later. He called the next day and said he couldn't make dinner that night he had to work late to finish a project and of course I knew it was a lie. I followed him to a popular pub and sat in the back and watched him meet his "blind date" they ate and drank and danced and at the end of the night he kissed her goodnight as he put in an Uber to take her home. He also took an Uber home since he had been drinking. He came into his house, showered, and went to bed. He fell asleep almost instantly and I sat there listening to him breathe and I hated him. The next few days passed by slowly. He worked or stayed out late and it was almost two weeks before I finally caught him at the mailbox. He explained that work was crazy and he had met someone, You would really like her he told me and suggested we all arrange to have dinner sometime soon. I was getting angrier and angrier as the days passed and the more he posted her on his social media the more I snooped on hers. She was perfect for him and she didn't even have to change to be perfect for him. He continued to share cute stories with me about them and their dates, She moved in with him after only two months and we were all fast friends. I spent a lot of time with them and I was there when he proposed to her after only three months. I was the Maid Of Honor at their wedding and was there when they announced their newest arrival would be coming in the fall. I watched, I listened and I waited. I had been in his life for over ten years, Of course, he only Knew me for two of those years, But I was loyal. Now I am sitting in a cell behind bars. A burglar broke into my home while I was at the grocery store and found my room, an anonymous call and some photos to the police and they searched my house. Anton filed charges on me and I was arrested for Stalking, Cybercrime, Breaking into his home. But in court, he wore the Blue pinstriped suit that brings out his eye's and she was dressed to kill. Baby Meredith named after her GodMother was dressed in an adorable strawberry print dress and bonnet. I may not have him, But every time he calls his daughter's name he will remember me. Meredith Grim.


Seven seconds mean different thing for different people at different times. The seven seconds where you decide to close your eyes after your alarm goes off pass differently than the seven seconds before you give birth. Time is relative, seven seconds can turn into seven hours or it can pass in the blink of an eye. Seven seconds is all it took for the police officer to decide to look the other way when he pulled up next to me on the curb. In one second, he saw a dirty homeless man. In two seconds, he was positive I was an addict. In three seconds, he saw the blanket laying flat where there should have been a bump. In four seconds, he deduced my leg was missing. In five seconds, he saw my military tattoo. In six seconds, he contemplated his choices. And in seven seconds, he had made up his mind to leave me alone, all before before he had even talked to me. "Hello Sir," his southern accent was thick, though not quite as thick as his stomach. "Anything I can do to help ya there?" "Do you have to power to regrow limbs?" I huff at him, my misplaced leg aching at the mention of it. "Are ya a lizard, my man? What's they called? Salamanders aren'ts they? They can regrow they limbs?" The seven seconds replayed through the officers eyes again as he contemplated whether his first assumptions about me where correct, but I could see it in his eyes when he reached the same conclusion as before. I smile at him, my tongue pushing through the gap in my teeth. I know what he sees, and I know he won't do anything. He decided that seven seconds ago. He ignores my rambling and knocks on the window of his patrol car. The window rolls down slowly, the other officer hesitantly eying me. He wasn't so convinced of my innocence. After a brief seven second conversation, a water bottle is passed through the window. The fat man walks back over to me and tosses the water bottle onto the ground. It lands where my leg should have been. "Thank you for your service." I want to throw the water bottle at his head. It takes me seven seconds to decide that the cons outweigh the pros. It takes another seven seconds for him to walk back to his car. Seven seconds to get in. Seven more seconds to get settled. And seven seconds before he drives away. Once the patrol car was out of site, I use my good leg to kick the water bottle back into the street. Bracing myself against the wall, I hop back into the alley. It's dark back here. I almost don't see the body until I'm right on top of it. It took me seven seconds. Sighing I run my finger along it's throat. "It only took you seven seconds to bleed out." I sighed loudly. "I could have killed 8 of you in the time that pointless interaction took.


My name is Charlie Benson. By day, I just go by Charlie. But by night, I go by a different name. In Germany I am known as the Schnurrbartträger. In India, the Munchh Daku. In Vietnam, I am the Kẻ cướp ria mép. I am the Moustache Bandit. And this is my confession. I am the Van Gogh of Van Dykes. The Michelangelo of moustachios. The Hokusai of the handlebar. I have travelled far and wide to freely display my art for the world. And while some may call me a criminal and a vandal, I see myself as simply another artist. For what is art but an induction of emotion? The act of giving one permission to feel? I had always liked to draw, and what I liked to draw the most was my father. He was a stout Englishman, with the most terrific mustache in the town. I watched in awe and admiration as he shook hands with clients and closed contracts, barely needing to say any words at all. "I can tell you're the right man for the job, Mr. Benson. Would you care to come over to our home for a whisky? I can introduce you to my wife," his clients would often say. I drew my father every day, his moustache taking up the entire page. As I hit puberty, I eagerly awaited my first stubble. My friends would come to school and show off their budding follicles or the cuts they had from their first shaves. I would go home and touch my face and find it was still smooth as silk. By the time I started my career as a clerk, all of my colleagues had some form of facial hair, all except my boss at the time. "I don't like mustaches. They're itchy and make no sense." I never really got along with him. The day turned 23, I walked into the doctor’s office. I was not the same man when I walked out. “Don’t worry son,” my father said to me. “There are facial wigs! There’s always a way.” My father died three months later, the cancer cutting through him like a hot knife. But even as he lay in his casket, it was as if he was only sleeping. After the funeral, as the world slept, I broke into my boss' office and painted a moustache on a picture of his mother. The experience was thrilling and frightening at the same time. I vowed never to do it again, and that despite it being but a crime of passion, it was still wrong. Then, the war began. Believing that the smell of cordite and the savagery of killing a man may convince my dormant follicles to grow a pair, I signed up to fight. But at the office, the recruiter looked me up and down and said: “Sorry son, you can’t join the fight until you finish secondary school.” I returned to the recruitment office that very night and painted moustaches on all the men and women on the posters until I ran out of ink. That night, I became the Moustache Bandit Sneaking away in the night was easier in the early days as most men where off fighting the nazis which, as we all know, had terrible taste in facial hair. During the day, I would be looking for faces on advertisements on the streets, those cold, naked faces, and would return in the late hours of the night, my ink and brush ready. And every night when I got home, I dreamed of sitting in the barber’s chair, like my father. After a while, I started to get noticed. Small articles appeared in the local paper. I started to feel a swelling in my chest, but not of fear and excitement like before. This was pride. After the war, things became a bit tricky. The revitalisation which occurred in the late 40’s and early 50’s made it far riskier for me to be out at night in the streets. And besides, the fire which once blazed in my heart when I slathered a moustache on someone’s picture had dimmed to the size of a candlelight, and the papers never mentioned me anymore. It was time for bigger game. First, I needed new tools. Working with a paint brush and a vial of ink would no longer suffice. I needed something discreet, quick, easy to carry, and most importantly, difficult to wash off. After several experiments, I managed to combine solvent, glyceride, pyrrolidone, some resin, and a colorant in a small metal tube with a firm sponge at the end. At first, I called it “the moustachiser”, but after being made aware of an infamous Austrian erotic novelist with a nearly identical name, I changed it to “Permanent Marker”. After my colleague Sydney saw me using it at work, he asked if he could borrow it. The next thing I knew, it was patented, and Sydney retired. Thankfully, Sydney is a remorseful man, and his guilt was assuaged with a 600-thousand-dollar check to me. With my finances set, I was ready to take my art worldwide. Before I continue, I must give credit to fiction novelists everywhere (except for that prude Mustachiser) for they are the greatest teachers. I would have never learned how to plan a break in, pick a lock, and evade authorities if it weren’t for the likes of Arthur Conan Doyle, Alexandre Dumas, and the hundreds of others who could not fit in this confession. Using these learned techniques and my practiced marker hand, I went to work. The girl with the pearl necklace now had a stunning mutton chops. The couple of American Gothic were adorned with handsome walrus moustaches. Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' now looked as dapper as the Monopoly Man. And with each new moustache, my name spread further and further. I felt like a god. That is, until I got caught. I feel it is important to clarify to you, dear reader, that I never once considered the addition of my moustache-masterpieces to be an improvement of the original art of which I made my canvas. They are but alterations. For I believe that it is the nature of change that the truest beauty - that of the human heart - is stimulated. And with this in mind, I knew I could never stop, not until I was caught or dead. Which brings us to the events of three days ago. There has always been one untouchable prize, one muse which has tempted me so. The Mona Lisa is the epitome of what we, as a society, have deemed as artistic greatness. This makes me angry. How can we put so much emphasis on something which represents so little of the beauty we feel every day, in all things? No, the Mona Lisa is not great. I believe that true art - true beauty - is our emotive hearts, free to feel what it pleases, with no frame to hold it in. It is the feeling of connection with the earth when we find a sprout amongst the cinders of a fire, the longing for the taste of one’s first and final love, or the harmony which comes after a great sadness. It is the joy of being with my father. These are examples of objective and unalterable beauty, and not some tart which looks like she’d be boring at parties. Boring, if not for a moustache... My plan was fool proof. I followed the painting for three years, recorded the movement of the guards, and bribed and blackmailed the right people. I didn’t care. Mona needed a moustache. On that fateful night, I snuck into the Louvre, past the guards, and turned the corner... This is where things fell apart. You see, I have a terrible fear of spiders. And just as I turned the corner, I came face to face with the most ghoulish eight-legged demon, hanging by a silk thread from the ceiling. The monster plopped right down on the tip of my nose, which caused me to panic and smack myself hard in the face. Dazed by the power of my own strike, I lost my balance and stumbled right into the code of Hammurabi, the most ancient tablet of law. You all know what happened next. So, there you have it. It was an accident, and I do not believe I should be charged for the crime of facing, quite literally, my greatest fear. If anything, I believe it is the spider which should be charged and - may I remind you - it is still at large. While I understand that the tablet would most likely dictate that I be pushed to the ground hard enough for my bones to break into thousands of pieces, I guarantee that I cannot be glued back together like the damaged artifact, which in my opinion, is a great example of what is known in Japan as Kintsugi, which is the art of fixing things that are broken with gold. All of this said, I sincerely and humbly apologize for the damage I have caused to the tablet. But if you expect me to apologize for my art... Well, then, I believe my work is done.