Joan Horton

I hear it at night when I turn out the light. It’s that creature who’s under my bed. He won’t go away. He’s determined to stay. But I wish he would beat it, instead. I told him to go, but he shook his head no. He was worse than an unwelcome guest. I gave him a nudge, but he still wouldn’t budge. It was hard to get rid of the pest. So I fired one hundred round cannon balls plundered from pirate ships sailing the seas. But he caught them barehanded and quickly grandstanded by juggling them nice as you please. The creature was slick. He was clever and quick. This called for a drastic maneuver. So I lifted my spread and charged under the bed with the roar of my mother’s new Hoover. But he snorted his nose and sucked in the long hose, the canister, cord, and the plug, and vacuumed in dust till I thought he would bust then he blew it all over the rug. Now this made me sore, so I cried, “This is war!” and sent in a contingent of fleas, an army of ants dressed in camouflage pants followed closely by big killer bees. But he welcomed them in With a sly, crafty grin, And he ate them with crackers and cheese. I screamed, “That’s enough!” It was time to get tough. “You asked for it, Creature,” I said, as I picked up and threw, with an aim sure and true, my gym sneaker under the bed. With each whiff of the sneaker the creature grew weaker. He staggered out gasping for air. He coughed and he sneezed and collapsed with a wheeze and accused me of not playing fair. Then holding his nose with his twelve hairy toes, the creature curled into a ball, and rolled ’cross the floor smashing right through the door. I was rid of him once and for all. The very next night when I turned out the light and was ready to lay down my head, I heard my kid brother cry out to my mother, “Hey, Ma, something’s under my bed.”