The Little Creek Terror

Todd Barstow clears his throat and sits back in the university library’s creaky chair. He turns his wedding ring three times and stares down at the cursive engraving, already well-worn from his work. His wife is gone. The entire world she carried with her is gone, shattered into the oblivion beyond this cosmos. But she is gone, lost to him, all for the ink outlining his doctoral thesis.

“I, uh… Shit.” He clicks a button on the tape recorder, commanding it to stop recording his white noise. How does someone begin to outline these events? How does someone wrap up a loved one’s life in a little bow for presentation’s sake? How does someone objectively dictate an event shaped by their heart and hands?

Todd scratches the back of his neck, reconsidering his words. He has to do this. Literally, as a cornerstone document in his research. Emotionally, as a tribute to her. And Todd is very, very good at doing the things he must.

He clicks record again. “My name is Todd Barstow,” he begins again. “PhD candidate at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, and this is my official statement on the life and death of Sloane Barstow née Dark, otherwise and better known as The Little Creek Terror.”