The audience sat, poised within the dimly lit, well-polished oak-paneled walls of Fultonbridge University’s grand lecture hall. The silence almost parochial, the pin-drop proverbial. The staccato tick-tick-tick of a wristwatch -- almost torturous.
**************
Arthur Sullivan Cogsworthy, II, Professor Emeritus at Fultonbridge University, rose from his bed to the chill of a late-September frost, crystalline patterns forming an intricate network of gossamer lace on the limbs of the otherwise bare trees.
“…An unexpected low-pressure system has swept in from Canada overnight, bringing with it a mass of arctic air and a very brisk start to the day, with temperatures for your morning commute a chilly 27 degrees…” The radio announcer proceeded to urge people to bundle up and stay warm.
“Nothing like stating the obvious.” The professor mumbled in a whisper.
Abacus barked in agreement.
Professor Cogsworthy looked at the Beagle, who seemed to be contemplating the probabilities of his being able to stave off the call of nature until the temperatures reached at least 30 degrees.
“We’ll have none of that. Now, out you go.” Abacus gave what could only be interpreted as a dog mumble and poked his nose out of the bottom of the dog door flap and sniffed the icy air.
“Out with the other end too.” Cogsworthy said over his shoulder.
By the time the Professor had completed his morning ablutions and Abacus was back inside, snugly ensconced in the cottage at 27 Juniper Lane, the lightly toasted bread popped up, and the Eggs-Every-Way signaled that the two eggs were ready after exactly 4 minutes, 30 seconds. Professor Cogsworthy had been given the egg-cooking gadget as a gift from a colleague to whom he had lamented that, after the loss of his dear wife, he was incapable of replicating her perfectly-timed soft-boiled eggs and had resigned himself to breakfasting on dry toast thereafter. Well, that was twenty-seven years ago. (The passing of his wife, that is, not the acquisition of the egg cooker.)
Professor Cogsworthy gazed out the kitchen window as the morning sun began melting away the icy chains from the trees.
“Twenty-seven years. Fourteen million. Two hundred one thousand. Two hundred eighty minutes. One, four, two, one, two, eight. Eighteen. One, Eight. Nine.” Cogsworthy whispered, double-checking the math in his mind.
“Nine!” He exclaimed aloud.
Abacus sat up, looked at the wall clock, cocked his head, and barked.
“Right you are, my boy! Nine! Time we get on with it.” The Professor pulled on his woolen overcoat, picked up his leather suitcase, snapped the leash to Abacus’s collar, and walked out of the front door of 27 Juniper Lane.
Abacus, pleased that the sun had taken the chill out of the morning air, and eager for what their morning adventure would bring, gave no protest and trotted dutifully alongside his elderly master.
As was his custom, every year, during the same month, on the same day, at the same time, he placed a fresh bouquet of 27 winter roses at the headstone of her grave. He and his dog sat quietly for a while in reverent silence until the chime of the church bell rang and they made their way out of the cemetery.
The station was unusually quiet that morning, as Professor Arthur Sullivan Cogsworthy, II and his dog Abacus waited for the Number 27 train, the principal point in a sequence of a long-awaited journey to ESCape.
**************
Dear Fellow Faculty, Students, and Alumni of Fultonbridge University,
I would like to thank all of you for the many years of scholarship, during which I have been both humbled and blessed to be a part.
Having rambled through these hallowed halls of knowledge, whispering the echoes of their erudite ponderings, I shall leave you with one, but often overlooked secret. Never attempt to curtail your endeavors simply by choosing ESCAPE. For this will only result in the temporary disappearance of your cursor and will not undo all of the work on which you have so diligently toiled.
I wish you the greatest success in your academic pursuits, and may your quest for knowledge be rewarded with wisdom.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Arthur Sullivan Cogsworthy, II
Professor Emeritus, Mathematics and Physics
Fultonbridge University
***************
The audience sat, poised within the dimly lit, well-polished oak-paneled walls of Fultonbridge University’s grand lecture hall. The silence parochial, the pin-drop proverbial, as the Dean of Students finished reading the note that had been left on his desk at precisely 9:27 that morning.
The Dean, without another word, slowly put the handwritten note on the lectern. The audience looked at one another in stunned bewilderment.
“HA! Old Cogsworthy comes clean! After all these years of his incessant whispering, he’s finally let his dummy do the talking so that we can actually HEAR what he’s saying!” Came a wisecrack from the assembly.
The rest of the assembled tittered nervously, waiting for the Dean’s reaction. But none came. Not from the note he had just read, nor from the insult he had just received. He simply stood there. Mouth agape. Eyes staring incredulously behind wire-rimmed glasses. The assembly, having taken this to be a silent dismissal, quietly left the lecture hall.
For weeks after that day, the entirety of Fultonbridge searched for the missing professor and his loveable sidekick, Abacus. To no avail. Soon, the speculation, rumors, and hearsay subsided. Students graduated. The seasons changed, and life went on. The quaint cottage at 27 Juniper Lane remained just as it had been the day Professor Arthur Sullivan Cogsworthy and his Beagle dog Abacus went out for a walk one Tuesday morning in September, two and a half years ago.
The only clue as to what might have become of the Professor and his faithful companion might have been found in an equation that had been scribbled on the back of a note that had fallen to the floor one unusually cold day in September.
CE= π × 7926 ≈ 24,901.461 miles
2+4+9+1+4+6+1=27
This enigmatic equation might provide a mathematical solution. But, it still begs the question…Why? Nonetheless, it is said that, to this day, every year, on the twenty-seventh day of September, at precisely twenty-seven minutes past the hour of nine o’clock in the morning, twenty-seven white winter roses can be found beneath a gravestone in the Fultonbridge Cemetery which bears only the inscription:
LISA APPLETON COGSWORTHY
Born: 2 July 1927
Died: 27 September 1999
Beloved Wife of
ASCogsworthyII.
The Amazing ESCape
of Professor A.S. Cogsworthy, II
7 January 2026
Word of the Week Winner: Twenty-Seven
