The proud white cupboard stands on the side of the longest bedroom wall, tyrannising every other piece of furniture with its size alone. One look at the intimidating giant and my resolve to clean it out evaporates into humid regret. My conscience is only assuaged with the most binding of promises: “NEXT Saturday. I’ll have more time then and I can tackle the job with confidence and determination.”

Saturdays come and go, yet the towering monster stands unchallenged, gloating with supremacy. Then, in a sudden and violent fever one Tuesday evening, I muster up the courage to face the villain. Breathing deeply, face set with resolve, I slowly and deliberately march toward the enemy. I place first my right hand on one small round wooden doorknob and then my left hand on the other. I fill my lungs to capacity and as I exhale I pull the doors open toward me.

This fiend has feasted for far too long. He is full to overflowing as is evidenced by the pillar of hats which tumbles to the ground at my feet. At eye-level there runs a rail the width of the creature and from this clavicle hangs every kind of clothing known to man: shirts of various colour and sleeve length, thick and thin cardigans mostly in assorted muted tones, long full skirts and floral patterned dresses, waistcoats, trousers and scarves. Shelves above this strut hold the barbarian’s brain which is crammed full of old boxes, which are in turn crammed full of sentimental souvenirs. Fishmoths, like tiny endoparasites, slowly digest the bowels of each cardboard crate, leaving a white trail of death in their wake.

Weapon at the ready I purposefully hit PLAY on my portable jukebox and crank the volume up to HIGH. Then, singing “Heart of Rock and Roll” at the top of my lungs, I thrust my bare arms into the belly of the beast and pull out gut-loads of garments. I am thrown off-balance and tumble backwards onto the bed shouting, “Take that, o, thou foul varmint!”   I do hate spring cleaning.



Writers’ Hub Challenge #4:   Where the Skeletons Live

The Prompt: Describe your closet. The Twist: Keep it short (but knock the reader’s socks off).