They’re still there, the beasts, perched on the outhouse roof with all the shadows who never made it home. They tell each other tales of little consequence—Once upon, Once upon—but lose their threads before they establish the central conflict, or even sketch a character that anyone’s going to care about: a time there was a girl, a time there was a boy. It doesn’t matter, because they all understand that every story’s about a beast, and that, whatever elaborate travails unwind, they all end here on the outhouse roof, shuffling and stretching as the yard birds quieten and the day forgets where it left its dog-eared to-do list. I like to sit up there amongst the shadows and just listen to the bat and flap of voices going nowhere. Once upon a time, there was time. I like to feel the warm breath of the beasts.

Bio: Oz Hardwick