Goblins Weren’t Real

She stormed in and slammed the door. Whatever she found, she wanted my attention.

“What the hell John!? I asked you to weed! Now it looks like some blind horse just kicked holes in my flower bed! I asked for one thing! What happened?!”

I turned from the game (3rd and long, playoffs) and pushed the beer away, summoning gravitas.

“Gnomes darling. Terrible nasty buggers, trying to eat the flowers. Had to beat ’em with a rake. It was the only way.”

“Gnomes aren’t real, jackass!”

Days pass. Another door, another slam, same bride is fuming. I pause Tivo  (I’ve learned) and my fighter’s fist is hanging in the air. I set the cigar in the ashtray she’s assigned since the last couch.

“Damn it, John! Why is all the laundry in the tool shed!? I asked you to do one thing! How hard is it to get off your–”


She stares, curses hang from her mouth.

“I tried to do the wash, my love. But the evil little bastards are always watching me. Always waiting. This time…this time, my darling, they saw their chance.” I hang my head solemnly, emphasizing my shame.

“Gremlins aren’t real, you tool!”

More days. New door (replaced the old one). She’s still with the slamming.

“What?! John! I can’t even–what the hell happened?! How hard was it to clean the living room?”

The coffee table is in the corner. Rugs folded over, couch cushions stacked in a cathedral praying to the Patron Saint of Filth, while pools of dark liquids seep across the floor.

“Goblins, baby. Vicious warty scamps, they did this–I’m trying to bait them out with soda…it’s gonna work this time.”

Eyes roll to the ceiling.

“John. There’s no such thing as–”

Our son jumps out of the cushions, teeth bared and hands clawing the air.


“Oh. Well, okay…”

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