The Fine Art of Setting the World on Fire

In the last installment of Temporary Monuments…

The Boy Under the Bed

My roommate left for the night without saying much—just a half-hearted shrug, the rattle of keys, and a mumbled something about meeting Kayla and crashing at her place. He didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t need one. We weren’t close like that. I heard the door close, then the lock catch, and I was alone. The quiet didn’t bother me. If anything, it was a relief. I flicked off the overheads, brushed my teeth in the glow of the desk lamp, and changed into the same sleep clothes I wore three nights in a row—soft cotton shorts and the gray tank that clung a little too much under the arms. I stood at the edge of my bed longer than necessary, just breathing, staring at the rumpled sheets like they had something to say. Then I climbed in, flipped the pillow, and tugged the blanket over one leg, letting the rest hang free. I had just settled into the stillness—into that in-between space where the body softens but the mind hasn’t followed—when I heard it. A grunt. Not loud, not violent, but close. Under me.

The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne

Tate crouched low, hands working quickly as he clipped the replacement banner to the rigging. The string of lights above the quad cast soft shadows across the lawn, just enough for me to make out his silhouette—focused, head down, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows, a smear of black paint drying along the back of his wrist.

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” I asked.

He didn’t look up. “The cheerleaders pull that cord at the end of the rally tomorrow. Every year. They’re expecting some motivational bullshit about school pride.”

“And instead, they get… this?”

He grinned without turning. “Exactly.”

The banner was wide, thick vinyl, the edges curling slightly from being rolled too long. The message spanned nearly six feet—bold block letters in red and black, painted in the same heavy hand I remembered from Tate’s art class submissions freshman year. It wasn’t elegant. It didn’t need to be.

Amy Griffin’s nose is as real as this one—kinda like our friendship. –ATF