display | more...
The boneman in my closet breathes black spots on the full-length, silver-backed mirror that hangs on the other side of the door.
He eats dirty t-shirts and wants me to move my hat collection onto the upper shelf, rather than hanging on display out in the room.
He has a menagerie of spiders that turn cartwheels and can perform a variety of other vaudeville tricks.
He excretes dustballs like tumbleweeds until he cannot move for them.
He has no concept of cleaning them out.
The boneman guards the door at the back to keep the things with glass teeth from coming through.
He leaves on the first of the month to go to tea parties.
He heads jauntily off to these gatherings, tipping me a wave as he goes, but slips back in late at night after I’ve gone to sleep, as if he is ashamed for being after curfew.
We have never discussed a curfew.
He hides my shoes when moody or depressed, or when he simply feels like a bit of conversation.
He doesn’t care if he makes me late for important things.
He oversees the breeding of the clothes hangers, culling and swelling their numbers at seeming whim.
He argues with something in the air vents that I cannot see or hear. At these times, his voice goes shrill and high. I usually leave the room.
I believe that he was briefly married to the spirit of an iced tea. I know this because I was asked to sign the papers officiating the ceremony. I later found the bottle in the trashcan, and he will not speak of her.
He mediated the peace accords between myself and the mice who live underneath the floorboards to both side’s contentment.
The boneman in my closet speaks 3 dozen languages, at least 4 of which I cannot find in any volume of inguistics.
He give advice when I’m getting dressed, making suggestions and vetoing. We have differing tastes when it come to apparel.
I saw him injured once. I believe that he got into a fight with the neighbor’s cat. He whispers darkly against it when it comes to window and miaows.
He will sometime threaten to go away, to leave and never come back. I bring him chocolate and he is happy again.
I have my suspicions about the death of a man across town. He was strangled in a most unusual manner. I cannot prove it and so I do not bring it up.
The boneman in my closet smoothes my hair and kisses my face at night.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.