At first, it just screamed and tore the place up. It turned my shelves over, ripped my curtains, pissed on my bed, and threw crap everywhere. It was bad, sure, but it was understandable. The monkey was a wild animal.
When it started trying my clothes on, I became worried. That dress I had banished to the closet because it was a few sizes too small was the first thing to capture the monkey’s attention. The dress really accentuated its figure.
After it had been through my whole closet and settled on clothes it liked, it straightened the place up. That would have been a relief, except it didn’t just clean up its own mess. It also dealt with the clutter. My clutter.
It took an interest to my bookshelf. Over time, it read through Moby Dick, Animal Farm, and even the Bible; all the important books I had never gotten around to.
Then it sat down at my desk and took a glance at the open cigarette box. Fuck, I really need a cigarette. The monkey didn’t, though. It threw them out. Once it got my laptop working, it started writing the memoirs I had always wanted to write.
When the sun was getting low and the monkey was getting tired, it didn’t immediately crawl into bed or pour itself another glass of wine. It went and phoned my mother, telling her how much it loved her and missed her. She was really happy to hear the monkey’s voice.
Tyler Bolich is a writer of flash fiction, poet, and novelist from New Jersey studying literature and creative writing at Stockton University.
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