The Monsters in my Closet

Daily Post, “closet.” My attempt at a story for kids, specifically my kid, who is super and strong, an artist and a cook, a princess and a superhero.  I would love to take this and illustrate it – I may be a lot of things, but an artist I am not.  Someday, maybe.

There are monsters in my closet. I hear them.  The scratch and claw at the door.  They grumble and growl.  There are monsters in my closet, but I am not afraid of them. They are afraid of me.

They know who I am. I am my Daddy’s girl, that’s what my Daddy always says, and my Daddy isn’t afraid of anything, so I am not afraid of anything.  We wrestle on the couch, on the floor, outside in the grass when it’s warm and sunny, and I always win.

The monsters in my closet know if they try to hide, I can find them. They watch me and my Daddy play hide-and-seek, through the crack in my door or through my bedroom window.  They can see how high I can count, to one hundred and more, and they see how smart I am.  Then they watch as I find my Daddy, no matter what, no matter where.  Even when he hides in my playhouse, that is pink, with purple curtains, a garden that I grew, and that he is way too big for, I find him, and I chase him, and I tag him. Every time.

They know they can’t run.

The monsters in my closet see who I can be, every day. I have so many dresses!  I can be a princess, and wear my crown, and have my kingdom that loves me.  Or I can be a superhero, and I am strong.  My cape flies behind me as I run so fast, climb trees, and save my dolls from danger.  I could fly, if I wanted to, but I would worry my Mom, and that’s mean.

I can be a lot of things, if I want to, but I am not mean.

The monsters in my closet know who I will be.  My Mommy says I will be tall, as tall as her.  My Mommy is real tall.  I’m as pretty as her, too, and she is really pretty.  Mommy and Daddy both say that.  The monsters see my art on my walls, and my homework with big red A+’s.  I can be anything I want, because I am strong, and I am smart.  I can be a princess, or a superhero, an artist or a cook.  My daddy cooks with me.  I make good scrambled eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, and cherry Kool-Aid.

The monsters know that when I wear my shoes, it’s all over for them. They are pink and blue and they light up when I run fast, and I can run real fast.  I race my Daddy and I win, every time.  When I wear my superhero boots, which are black and go up to my knees, I can run and climb.  I can also kick and fight, which is how I save my dolls from danger.  I am strong, just like my Daddy and my Mommy.

There are monsters in my closet, and they are scared of me.

I hear the monsters in my closet, when they scratch and claw, when they grumble and growl. They hold the door shut when I walk into my room.  They skitter and scramble when I open the door to get my shoes or my cape.  The monsters run and hide, even though they know I can find them, if I wanted to.

I bet they wish they never walked into my closet in the first place!

“That Willow!” they say. They tremble and shake!  They moan and wail!  “That Willow is strong!  That Willow is fast!  She is sly and smart, quick and witty!”  They stay in that closet, and they do not dare to come out.

The monsters in my closet know better.

Every night before bed I stand in front of my closet. I wear my pajamas with the footies and the cape and picture on front that tells them I am super.  I put my hands on my hips and I yell, “Monsters!  I know you’re in there!  If you come out, it’s all over!”  I hear the monsters scratch and claw, grumble and growl.  They hold the door shut, they hide in my dresses, they cower behind my boots.

I know I am super. I know I am smart.  I know I am strong.  I know I can be anything I want to be.  I can be a princess, a superhero, an artist, or a cook.  My Mommy and Daddy say I am, but I know it, deep deep deep down.  I am a lot of things and more.

I can be a lot of things. I am smart and fast, sly and strong.  I am a princess and a superhero, an artist and a cook.  I can be whatever I want, but I am not mean.

The monsters in my closet scratch and claw, skitter and scramble, grumble and growl. They hide and cower, in my clothes and behind my boots.  They hold the door shut, and they hear me, at night, in my pajamas, telling them what’s what.

But they don’t need to.

Not really.

I may be a lot of things…

But I don’t bite.

Closet

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