He wondered if there was a point to any of it—all the wringing and wiping. There were always more words cracked across the stone. He’d seen it all: a curled mustache on his statue’s upper lip, a swastika beneath his death date, a pink penis tattooed on his statue’s right cheek. One time he’d woken up to the smell of smoke and the fire department. A group of visitors had tried to set fire to his grave.

Each morning, Karl woke up early to clean his grave. He would walk towards the edges of the east side of Highgate Cemetery and turn left a few meters before he’d reached the entrance to access the tool shed. The walls were rust-red and rotting, and Karl knew it was a problem, but he did nothing to fix it. He had better things to do.

Every time he stepped into the tool shed, he had the same thought: what tools do I need? The shed was filled with junk: shovels, hoes, bags of soil, gloves, all surrounding the centerpiece: a dusty lawnmower. Sometimes Karl would sit on the lawnmower and imagine himself drinking a beer with his friends. They’d pop open the tabs and shotgun beers until they were tipsy. Karl would lick the foam off of his lips and his friends would laugh at him, spray him with the rest of their own. But then his friends would morph to shadows, and he’d shake off the thought quickly. He wasn’t lonely. It was always business with Karl. A casual routine. And although he always asked himself what tools he needed each time he entered the tool shed, he would always end up grabbing the same two items: a bucket and a rag.

The journey back to his grave was quiet. Karl didn’t speak to anyone else in the cemetery. No other zombies visited his grave in the mornings. In the orange light, he could see some of the others heading out of the grounds for tea or breakfast. Sometimes he witnessed Leslie Stephen and George Eliot playing rugby. Anytime the diamond-shaped ball was thrown near Karl’s grave, he saw the two hesitate and begin to bicker. It’s your turn to retrieve it, Stephen would spit to Eliot. I got it last time, Eliot would snarl back.

Two Monday mornings ago, Karl had stopped cleaning the graffiti off of his grave to pick up the ball that had landed near his headstone. He gripped it in his hand and launched his arm back, tossing it to the men. It spun through the air, making Karl feel somewhat proud of his throw, although he didn’t know if the ball was actually supposed to spin, or if he was even supposed to throw it. He’d never played rugby. Eliot and Stephen had watched Karl toss them the ball, but when it landed near their feet, they didn’t bend down to pick it up. They didn’t move. Instead, they looked at it like it was a plagued rat, backing away from it slowly. They didn’t even thank Karl.

Maybe they were the ones graffitiing his grave. Bastards. There was a long list of culprits, but Karl had never taken the time to investigate who was actually doing the vandalizing. Sometimes at night he could hear voices, some familiar, some unfamiliar, cackling as they shook their spray paint cans. Karl was used to the shaking sound—like a pebble in a mason jar.

With his bucket filled with water and a wet rag, Karl began to scrub his own headstone. It was fresh enough that it rubbed off easily today, meaning that the culprits must have painted it only hours ago. Karl hadn’t slept at all that night. He’d heard them whispering, hatching their plans. No, paint it on his cheek, he’d heard one of them say.

Karl could have stopped them. He had been awake. He could have easily risen from the ground, stretched, and taken care of the nonsense. But for Karl, cleaning off his grave every morning gave him somewhat of a sense of purpose. It was important to him that his legacy be preserved. Legacy? What legacy? his inner voice sneered. You’re the father of Communism, and you’re letting your grave get a bunch of dicks painted on it? Some strong man you are.

Karl would shake off these thoughts. Maybe his legacy had changed, he told himself. Maybe he wasn’t always meant to be the strong man. Maybe now he was meant to be the janitor-man, the cleaner-man, the keep-quiet-and-mind-your-business-man.

He had moved on to washing off the final bit of graffiti marked on his grave. The criminals had painted over the engraving on his headstone. It was supposed to read, “THE PHILOSOPHERS HAVE ONLY INTERPRETED THE WORLD IN VARIOUS WAYS – THE POINT HOWEVER IS TO CHANGE IT,” but the criminals had painted over most of the letters so that the remainders spelled “ANUS.”

Karl scraped off the last bit with his nails. He rose from his knees and returned his bucket and rag to the tool shed. From this vantage point, he could see most of Highgate and its people, most of them asleep. Still, he could see the few and far awake: Douglas Adams was dusting off his own grave, coloring his arms in with markers he’d been given as an offering. Karl wished someone would place markers on his grave, maybe even pink roses.

As he walked back towards his grave, he saw that his headstone shined from meters away. He could read the engravement clearly: THE PHILOSOPHERS HAVE ONLY INTERPRETED THE WORLD IN VARIOUS WAYS – THE POINT HOWEVER IS TO CHANGE IT.

Karl knew the improvement was temporary. He knew he would wake up the next day and there would be graffiti all over his grave again. As usual, he would clean it. As usual, the morning after the next, his work would be undone. The damage was cyclical. Still, Karl would clean. He would repeat the process over and over, again and again, until one day, he would either tire of the chore or wake to a polished grave. He wondered how many more years he would be living like this, pondering the same question every morning. He wondered if there was a point to any of it.

It all started when I realized that maybe being a cancer researcher wasn't my purpose in life. I was in a PhD program, living ten hours away from the nearest person who even knew my favorite color, when I realized that. Few things hurt me more than dropping out of grad school. It wasn't lost on me that I was making the conscious decision to take everything I'd ever worked for and shoot it in the face: my pride, my self-confidence, my expensive college education, my entire self-concept. It was agonizing and I had no one to blame but myself.

While I waited for the lease on my apartment to end and for my irate mother to come save me from myself, I was awaiting something else with far more dread. My cat was 19 years old and fading fast. She hardly ate anymore and all she did was sleep. She meowed when she wanted me to put her in the window and she meowed when she wanted me to move her to my bed. Seeing her so frail broke my heart in the most visceral sense. I knew I was on the verge of losing her. So, I turned to something that I hadn't done in a long time.

I hadn't written a story since the fourth grade. I considered anything that wasn't math or science to be a complete waste of my time. I'd found a one-sided love in research like you wouldn't believe. Art was a foreign language I never cared to decipher. Emotions were for other people. My life was safe and sterile, my purpose mighty and untouchable. But I ruined all of that.

I hated myself when I started writing again. I thought to myself, "You're just doing this because you can't find anything more useful to fill your time." And that had some truth to it. I couldn't bear the thought of what I'd become (unemployed, ugh) and I couldn't bear to look at my dying cat and empty apartment. I did anything I could to escape.

A world started to take shape in my head. Rules, magic, and a fair helping of regret: Beritru the Brutal was born. Some snark and apathy: Arvul. Then little Vonrael Solus, who would bear all the pain I felt. He would share in my tears, my hateful disillusionment, and my quiet triumph at the end of it all. I made a whole cast of characters and I entrusted a piece of myself to each of them.

Thirteen months is a long time to write. In that time, my heart broke more before it began to heal. I held my cat as she died. I sold my car, my symbol of independence. I left science for good and started from the ground up in IT. Each wave of grief and uncertainty fueled my writing. Likewise, each day I didn't cry became a pebble in my growing mosaic of self-assurance. Page by page, I became more whole.

I published The Afternoon King with the hopes of helping someone like myself. I wanted to give another grieving person a story to relate to without saying, "I understand you." I don't understand your loss. You don't understand mine. But we can both look at each other and know that we're in pain. I would've been happy with that.

This past weekend my book was named a Finalist in the Fantasy category in the 13th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards. I couldn't be more proud of the little digital sticker I get to put on the cover. All it took was an imploded career, a dead cat, and thirteen months.

My proudest work is strange and unusual, but it is what started my love for wrtiting. When I was about 10 years old, I created a chracter called Billytheidiot. I sucked at drawing when I was young; wait, I STILL suck at drawing, so BillytheIdiot was simply just a stick figure. I made a "comic" series on him and would make a bunch of stories of his adventures. Billy was an alien from another planet who was sent to Earth when he was a baby. You know, the whole Superman origin. Billy was strong, could fly and had powers, however he was just plain dumb. I created an entire character along with back stories, friends, and villains. Ever since then, I just really enjoyed creating stories. I look back on it and yes, "BillytheIdiot" is just my childhood imagination going nuts, but I remember how much I LOVED making them and sharing the stories with my friends. Today I still have my old line paper drawings and stories of Billy, even gone as far as making a short minute animation on him when I was in college. BilytheIdiot is my orgin of writing and even though the name may seem childish or dumb, I'm very proud that little ol' 10 year old me had that kind of imagination.

Sister said,

“You’re nothing but a man eater”

And I chewed on that

Long and hard

Cause diets

are a girl’s best friend

and my secret to satiation is that

I’m always consuming

being eaten

alive.

Ingredients for how to start me simmering?

Shit,

I like grammar rules

And long division

So boy

put your

Eyes

Before

Ease

Except after

See

all

you’re looking for is someone

To fill the intercostal voids

Where women were made from

RIBBED

meat

FOR YOUR PLEASURE

modern day romance

Is all but dead

So sorry to snitch

On this sad

situation

snatch

what’s being sought

with a  loosening of these laurels

while we debase our morals

Together

we’re a train wreck

On a fast feeding frenzy

Combating alone time with

addictions

No, I never did depend on alcohol

But your attention

is 80 proof

Positive

That I’m better off

alone

I’m a woman

Of dark hair

Pale skin

colored

In the lines

So that puts me on the edge of VANITY

FAIR

To say if this were a string

I’d be dangling

on the precipice of your vowels

at the peak of your syllables

It’s an I

And a U

And a sometimes

Why

Questions seems concerning to me

So I think I’ll raise my voice

An octave above object

ification

hum these chords

through the phone cord

through the dime store

through the point where

what matters most is knowing

time is temporary

and I put a memory of you on my wrist

watch

the minutes tick into hours

these second hands sound silly

but for every sixty

I’m settling

My stomach

Ache

It was great

But I’m full on

Full frontal

and I’m French

so

j’ai faim

I.

Have .

Hunger.

For the human nature necessities

to

Eat

Drink

Man

Woman

It’s the BOOK OF RITES

My right

To consume

And assume

You,

Sister,

Presumed

wrong

I'ts obviously a hotel room. It's even more obvious its the nicest hotel room I've ever been in. The chambermaid let herself in, all subservient and apologetic when she spotted me on the bed. She's small and dark, her hair plaited around her head in a complicated style that makes my head hurt. Hurt more, I mean.

"Mehico," she said when I asked. She didn't even look up from the sink. Do a lot of people in 5 star hotels ask what country they are in?

The phone rings like its been detonated. I dont want to answer it, but it gives me no choice.

"Breakfast is only served til 10. Are you coming?"

I reel from the blast. The voice is mine. How is the voice mine?

"Madam? Madam?" The chambermaid's face is close to mine, her round brown eyes concerned, and I realise I'm on the floor. I focus on the gold stripe, running through cobalt blue, on the deep pile of the carpet.

"I'm fine, thank you, I'm fine," I say but my skin is slick where her hand rests on my arm, hesitant as a deer.

"Your sister is on the phone Madam, she wonders are you joining her for breakfast?"

And there it is. My twin, missing for 25 years. Feared dead, trafficked, tortured. But she was none of those things. I close my eyes and see her face - my face - last night, the champagne celebrations, the story of her unimaginable wealth, her choice to disappear and her choice to be found.

Swimming in a pool

I was being cool

Did a flip

Everyone saw my nips

Couldn't find my phone.

Standing next to me, Dad called it.

My bra rang.

#spacecase