On the rare clear days, Ballmoran passed for an ordinary town, sheep in the fields, sloped stone walls, grass bent with wind. At the turn of the century, it had been the thriving heart of tallow production, drawing men and their families from across the island and farther still. But when the fog settled in, thick and white as the tallow itself, the town vanished. The neighbouring settlements called it “the town that God forgot,” and to Finn Duffy, the name felt fair.

This is Nicholas Bell, everybody calls him Nick. He’s there, standing 5 foot 2 in baggy cargo pants and a gray hoodie. Sometimes I talk to him, sometimes I just watch, sometimes neither of us speaks and he’s just - there. Then I awake and he’s gone again. But I know I’ll see him in a couple months. I know this because I’ve seen him every couple of months for the past 26 years. He’s my first crush. And he died when we were 14.

Around the time Avi turned nine, his parents began throwing karaoke parties in their little bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac in a suburb of New Jersey. Although they were far from wealthy, Avi’s mother and father steadily climbed their way to becoming solidly middle-class. Over the past year, Avi’s father began saving for a state-of-the-art karaoke machine and a small but mighty collection of laser discs, many of which featured medleys of the latest hits.

There it was. The same place it had been the day before, and day before that, and the 13 days before those. A chocolate brown leather belt, looped and secured on the same mannequin near the back of the store. The mannequin also wore a pair of tan plaid pants, a cream-coloured turtleneck and shiny black loafers. And although it lacked any definition of eyes or eyebrows, it did have a heavy moustache that propped up a pair of aviator sunglasses.

This is where I came everyday, 715 West 12^th, a psychiatric hospital, a building on the verse of being condemned.

Snapping mouse traps were placed in the corners of each corridor, where thick layers of dust muted the once red and teal pattern on the carpet. Big white clocks haphazardly hung in the hallways, each one reading a different time. Tinted blue, double pane glass doors intermittently swung over, releasing a burnt electrical smell and the occasional scream of those inside. 

My college years attending art school were some of my most formative, especially in teaching me how to withstand criticism. One event, in particular, contributed more than any other to the thickening of my proverbial skin.

As a child, Constance never got very hot nor very cold. Really, what kid ever does? But for Constance, it was this imperviousness to cold weather that allowed her to play outside, barefooted and in a pilling, striped tank top, well into the autumn months and long past the setting of the sun.

A much beloved pastime was scaling Old Blue, a name she had affectionately given to her father’s Chrysler Minivan. A vehicle, that to Constance, resembled a sheet of insurmountable ice-blue metal. But tonight surmount it, she would.

My last apartment was the definition of old,

Leaky pipes, damaged ceilings, and traces of mold.

Mice thriving in the walls, nibbling their way through the brick,

Each unit with a working fireplace, built in 1906.

The original wood floors, perpetually dirty with debris,

Your footpads painted black, with you lifted your feet.