Another Post on the Fiends Living in my Sock drawer

Veteran of the War. Ask which war and he will tell you the one between The Empire of the Recently Reunified Sock Drawer and The Evilly Disposed Socialist Republic of the Closet in the Hall Across From the Bathroom. (It was declared a draw on account of a highly contagious flu wiping out over 90% of the combatants on both sides of the conflict.) Abacus now spends his time reading old Reader’s Digest magazines and leaving toenail clippings in the corners of my sock drawer.

Yawn (stretch)

I woke up this morning.

That’s always a good start. 

Because if I didn’t wake up this morning,
It would mean one of two things:

1, I’m typing this in a dream
2, The afterlife looks suspiciously like my kitchen.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

With my book, I mean.

Sure, it’s finished

The next step?

Releasing it online

Which is fine and dandy, but

Have you seen the number of e-books out there?

(As Carl Sagan would say)

“Billions and billions”

The trick is standing out

How does one do that?

Without going to jail, I mean.

Meet the Fiends Living in my Sock Drawer

The word ‘grunyon’ is literally a contraction of ‘gross’ and ‘onion’. You see, if an onion is left to rot in the veggie drawer of a fridge long enough, it can somehow transmogrify into a bipedal, big-mouthed, slightly anxious creature with little-to-no self-esteem. This grunyon is a Walla-walla sweet that somehow migrated into my sock drawer in December of last year, bringing with it a smell that can only be described as a combination of body odor and fried onions.

Meet the Fiends Living in my Sock Drawer

Miss Ellywelly is a cute little kid with a horrible habit: she takes books out of the library using my card and then loses them. Not once has she returned a book she’s borrowed. Of course I’m the one the library calls when they want their books back. I’ve tried explaining to them it isn’t me taking the books out, that it’s really the work of a little girl living in my sock drawer, but all that does is encourage the library to pass my file onto a collection agency, and I’m not about to risk getting my knees broken over books about talking bunnies making cookies.

Ghost Under my Bed

There’s a ghost under my bed
Of a boy
He’s twelve, I think
Or at least he used to be
I thought it was a rat at first
Until I heard him giggle
He was just lying there
Wide eyed and pale
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said
“Go away.”
That’s the thing with ghosts
They never listen
It’s been six weeks now
In two days it will be seven
Most of the time he’s quiet
But if take out my earplugs I can hear him
Breathing, mostly
In a pattern eerily similar to my own
The truth is: he scares me
Not because he’s bad
But because he’s a ghost
“Leave,” I say, “Or I’ll have you exorcised”
I’m only bluffing, though
The poor fella’s already died once
He doesn’t need to experience it again
So in the meantime
Until I figure out what to do
I’ve bought some comics and a flashlight
And slid them under the bed
Wrapped in a map to my sister’s house

Of course, I’ve never been accused of being either.