Dear Wigleaf,

I write to you from The Fubsy Couch, beloved of only me, upholstered in retro green plaid, too small for more than one short person, a steal at twenty bucks from the St. Vincent de Paul. I live on the second floor and from the couch I can look out the window at the New Hampshire winter and listen to the creature that lives in my wall, about a foot from my ear. My invisible roommate scratches and wiggles and stops and starts, leaves for days and then burrows for hours.

Some possibilities: squirrel, raccoon, rat, opossum, ghost from the Revolutionary War, colony of bats.

Squirrel: You are all alone, Gwen. I'm coming through the wall one of these nights, and I have rabies.

Raccoon: I notice that you are not writing enough, Gwen. I also have rabies.

Opossum: I do not have rabies. I'm going to chew at the wires in the wall until I fry. You'll smell my dead body for months.

Squirrel: Have you seen the movie Alien? It's going to be like that. I'll burst from this wall and go straight for your ear.

Ghost: I died in 1783 after I got rabies. And I agree with the raccoon. Don't you think you could be writing more?

Colony of bats: WE ARE THE DARKNESS. WE RULE THE NIGHT.

Ghost: Is that popcorn you're eating? At this hour of the night?

Greetings from the couch and the chorus in my wall,

Gwen




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Read Gwen E. Kirby's story.

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