Aydar Salimov (Apt #203)

The question we should all be asking is, can you help this town? Can you help this town? Can you help this town? Can you help this town? Aydar mulled over the words, trying to decode some secret message that would explain what exactly he had to do with the strange events that had been occurring in the town ever since Mr. Evans died. He was beginning to suspect that the pocket watch he had received had more to do with the strange turn of events than he had previously thought, and above that Jack Stars knew something about it. Admittedly, Aydar was beginning to feel like the character of some fantasy book he had read as a child. Yet, how could he possibly be the hero of anything? As he set down his groceries to open the door of the Foxberry, Stephanie Greene and her husband Oliver turned the corner of Foxberry Ave. Although they were still a distance from the Foxberry, Aydar could make out a hammer in Stephanie’s hand. She seemed agitated and it made Aydar curious. Why take a walk...

Aydar felt anxious. It had been almost a week since the frogs first arrived and the school had closed down. He couldn’t seem to occupy himself, not to mention the constant murmur was beginning to get on his nerves. The sounds enveloped his room like a musical straight jacket. He’d managed to keep the frogs out by staying in his apartment for several days, but the self-inflicted confinement wasn’t doing him any favors. The question of the pocket watch continued to irk him. When he’d gone the past weekend to investigate the spoon with rose etching, he was greeted by a crowd of visitors and barely managed to catch a glimpse of the silverware. He’d resolved to come back later once the holiday-happy tourists were back in their own homes. Unfortunately, the frogs had stopped that plan in its tracks. The museum closed shortly after their arrival.  --- “Knock, knock.” Aydar jumped up, opening the door hurriedly. He was greeted by a face that seemed familiar, though he had neve...

Aydar stepped into the bookstore, careful to close the door quickly to avoid snow from following him in. After shaking the soft powder out his coat, he headed for the farthest corner of the small dusty bookstore. He slowly combed through the books on the shelves, but it seemed impossible to find any material on psychology. Although, that may be attributed to his state of mind rather than the bookstore’s catalog. He’d intended to buy a new psychology book, yet his mind kept drifting back to the package that had been placed in his arms just days before. The package, a small brown box devoid of a return address or distinct markings, contained a pocket watch who’s rusting exterior did little to hide the intricate pattern of roses etched on the back. Aydar, who could always find an answer, had no answer for this. “May I help you?” Aydar spun around, startled by the voice coming from the front of the bookstore. He turned around to see a women in her late 40’s standing behind the desk. ...

The room smelled of leftover daily pizza. It was still dark when Aydar shoved his papers to the side and stretched, trying to ignore the familiar discomfort that came with falling asleep on the old couch. He sighed, got up, and rolled up the blinds. The soft autumnal light illuminated his crowded apartment. It seemed as though the bookshelves lining his walls were pushing in every direction. On the bookshelves sat hundreds of books ranging from psychology textbooks to ancient ballads. Despite the ample shelving, numerous file folders, papers, books, and unpacked boxes covered every other possible surface. Aydar glanced at the boxes, which remained unopened: a reminder of his displacement. The apartment had looked like this since Aydar’s arrival; however, the mess was becoming unreasonable. Aydar grabbed his keys and began slicing through the masking tape firmly holding the boxes together. It appeared that he would be spending his first break of the year cleaning. Slowly, the boxes we...

The day started with a multitude of chattering voices. The voices clanged around the room, bouncing off ancient models of the brain, squeaking through stacks of papers, cracking against glass window panes. Aydar rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses seemed to be pressing into his head and rapped his knuckles on the table. The students turned towards the sharp noise and fell silent. Aydar continued his lesson in the silence; however, an occasional glance around the room told him enough. Chins sinking into the palms of their hands, eyes glazed over, the occasional nod. No one actually cared about the functions of the frontal lobe, they were far too preoccupied by Mr. Evans’ death. Aydar was used to a little disinterest, after all, psychology wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but today’s absolute lack of focus struck a nerve. He felt a the pang of loneliness that he had been ignoring for far too long. It was completely illogical to be jealous of a dead man, yet the idea of eve...