It wasn’t my dark, bogeyman-filled nighttime closet, nor the monster netherworld beneath my bed, that filled my preadolescent heart with dread. It was the furtive bleurs living under our roof.
Every shadow, every flash of movement just outside of my field of vision, could be one of the child-abducting spirits waiting to snatch me from my home. Hiding under my blankets wasn’t a deterrent to bleurs like it was to under-bed and closet fiends. There was no hiding from bleurs.
I knew destroying their attic domain was my only recourse. My parents never understood, but it was worth the grounding.
Thin spiral notebook 
I am going to double check the fan everytime now on.. Ha ha ha… Great writing
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Attics have always been a little creepy to me.
(I’ve been trying to leave a comment on your poem, Roof, but it never seems to take. If I could, this is what I wanted to say: I don’t think I have ever read a more romantic or lovely description of a roof. I loved this.)
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