Broken Banjo

            Miles and Harold stood with their mouths wide open. Harold’s mouth seemed to open into a dark, soulless night, while Miles mouth was full of cheese.

            “It’s also rude to stare with your mouths wide open,” Miss Kitty said. “Swallow the cheese, Miles, before you choke.”

            “You know I’m a ghost,” Harold said.

            “Elementary, my dear Harold,” Miss Kitty said. “Mysterious ailment, can’t be seen or heard, rocking chairs rocking with nobody sitting in them—must be a ghost in the house.”

            “I told you she was exceptional,” Miles squeaked after he swallowed his chunk of cheese.

            “You can see and hear me,” Harold said, crimson tears forming in his empty eye sockets.

            “Well, you are rather shadowy, and your voice sounds more like a whisper, a wisp of wind, an annoying frequency in the back of my mind. But yes, right now, I can sense you.”

            Miles washed his hands, sitting on his haunches. “Ask her about the banjo,” Miles said.

            “Oh, Miles," Harold practically shouted, "this is a monumental occasion. How can you prattle on about the banjo?”

            “The banjo?” Miss Kitty asked.

            “Miles wants to know about the banjo in your hand,” Harold said. “For your information, Miles, the banjo belonged to my grandfather, Harold the first. He gave it to me, and I played it until Lilith accidentally stepped on the head.

            “Sometimes,” Miss Kitty said, “ghosts gather strength from objects that belong to them. Perhaps this banjo will help you solidify.”

            “Harold,” Miles said, “ask her if she knows any luthiers.”

            “Miles,” Harold shouted, “stop interrupting our conversation.”

            “I know a luthier,” Miss Kitty said, “in Sandpoint. Fiddlin` Red. He's pretty amazing, and can repair just about anything. I bet he could repair that banjo.”

            “Bob’s your uncle,” said Miles.

Don't Be Rude

          

           Miss Kitty, a short woman with curly purple hair, a nose ring, a tatoo of a bluebird on her shoulder, and a housekeeping job, opened the front door, walked into the living area, and delivered a slice of Brie cheese to the bookcase. “Here you go, Mr. Packrat.”

            Miles closed his eyes and breathed deep. His nose twitched in delight. “Oh, thank you, Miss Kitty,” he said, which sounded like a little squeak to Miss Kitty.

            “I wish I could understand what you were saying,” Miss Kitty said, reaching out to pat Miles on the top of his head. He reached out his right paw.

            “Pleased to meet you,” Miss Kitty said.

            Miss Kitty meandered over to the corner table, where she found her bi-weekly instructions. “Dear Miss Kitty,” the note said. “The packrat’s name is Miles, and he would like to thank-you for the cheese. I am still suffering from my mysterious ailment, and can’t be seen or heard. Please dust, sweep, and mop. In addition, the outside shed needs a look through. It’s a real mess. Your paycheck has been deposited into your PayPal account. Sincerely, Harold Siga.”

            “Well, Miles,” Miss Kitty said, turning to look at the bookcase, “I’m glad I know your name. It’s so sad about Harold. I hope he’s feeling better soon. I'm going to check out that shed. Enjoy your cheese.”

            Miles, delighted that she had read the note he printed out for her, focused his attention on the delicious slice of cheese she had brought him. “I do believe I am in pack rat heaven,” he said.

            Harold came down the stairs, taking one step at a time, as if he were in a graduation procession or a wedding march.

            “Is that wretched girl still here,” Harold asked.

            Miles, his nose buried deep in the cheese, completely ignored Harold. In fact, Miles pretended that he could not see or hear Harold.

            “Miles,” Harold shouted, his eyes filling with blood, “I asked you a question.”

            Harold pounded his fist on the table, knocking it over.
            "I think you're angry because of the rejection slips you've been receiving in regards to your Strangled Darlings," Miles said.
            Harold, in the throws of a full blown temper tantrum, stamped his feet. Of course, his head fell off.

            Kitty walked back into the house, a broken banjo in her hand.

            “Excuse me, Harold,” Miss Kitty said. “Just because you’re a headless ghost doesn’t mean you have to be rude.”

Strangled Darlings

“You could call your book of poetry “Strangled Darlings,” Miles the packrat said to Harold the Ghost, lifting his right paw to wash the dust off the tuft of hair that sprouted between his ears like a want to be Mohawk.

Harold, proud that he had completed his final draft of his final poem for his first book ever just laughed. “Oh Miles,” he said, “You’re such a jokester.”

Unfortunately, Miles wasn’t joking. He thought it was the perfect title for the most wretched book of poems he had ever read, and he considered himself to be a well-educated poet, a fan of E. E. Cummings, Robens Napolitan, William Carlos Williams, Sandra Rasor, Mary Oliver, Tom Kramer, Maya Angelou, Rhoda Sanford, Edwin Arlington Robinson, DaNae Aguirre, Billy Collins, Jackie Henrion, Robert Hayden, Jan Sarchio, William Shakespeare, Lorna Summers, Sage Francis, Sandy Lamson, Robert Frost, Karen Seashore, Gwendolyn Brooks, Winter Bennet, William Butler Yeats, Adrian, Shann Ray, Rebecca Gordon, Renee D'Auost, Rita Dove, Jonathan Johnson (too name but a few), and of course, a faithful follower of Desiree Aguirre.

Harold, however, believed that his poems would vindicate his life, and in fact, his subsequent death, which wasn’t a strangling, but rather, an off with your head, thank you very much, and then, off with the money. Of course, the murderers didn’t get a cent, so sad for them, and Harold, alas, was now a virtually headless ghost.

Fortunately, Harold met Miles the pack rat in the old cabin on Marijuana knob, where the dastardly deed had been accomplished. Miles, an electronic and computer genius, had in fact, managed Harold’s account and currently, as Miles liked to say, they were in the green. Really, Miles thought, it was easier to let Harold have his poetic fantasies. It left Miles time to surf the net and pursue his passions, shopping on EBay and trying to locate Harold’s former, living wife, Lilith—the woman who possibly murdered him.

Of course, Miles mused, if Harold was writing her love poetry back then, he completely understood why she would off him.

Run Harold, Run

Harold ran down the stairs, chasing his head, which bounced on each and every step. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Harold said, his body leaning down to try and capture his skull.

            Harold grabbed his head and scooped it under his arm. “Miles,” he shouted, “are you all right?”

            Miles hung upside down like a bat. His orange earplugs had fallen on the floor. His tail was hanging on to the ledge of the bookcase, and his hands were grasping a first edition of “To Have and Have Not.”

            “Oh bother,” Miles said, “I seem to have gotten myself in a bit of a pickle.”

            To both of their amazement, Harold’s right arm, the one free of the head, materialized, complete with a blue Oxford shirtsleeve. The hand on the arm reached out, and grabbed Miles, rescuing him from his upside predicament.

            “Thank-you,” Miles said, dusting off his shoulders.

            “Danada,” Harold said, a thin smile stretched across his face.

            “Harold, I think we need to celebrate. Your arm materialized, reached out, and held me. This is a momentous occasion.”

            Harold settled his head on his shoulders. “Would you read to me from one of your books,” Harold asked.

            Surprised, Miles stood as tall as a not so big pack rat could, and pointed to one of his favorite books of poetry. “Grab that one, old man,” Miles said. “Let’s read some riming poetry.”

            “I didn’t think you liked riming poetry,” Harold said, admiring his materialized arm.

            Miles snatched his nose to stop the eruption of harsh words (I don’t like bad riming poetry he would have said).

            Harold gingerly took the book from the shelf, set it on the reading table, and then, sat down in the rocking chair. Miles flipped through the pages, using his entire body to find one of his favorite poems, “Luke Havergal,” by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Miles began to read:

            “Go to the western gate Luke Havergal,

            There, where the vines cling crimson on the wall,

            And in the twilight wait for what will come.

            The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,

            Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;

            But go, and if you listen she will call.

            Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal-

            Luke Havergal.”

Miles looked up, excited to be reading one of his favorite poems of all time to Harold the ghost. Miles thought that perhaps they would engage in a lively discussion afterward, and discuss metaphor, symbolism, word choice, and yes, cadence and rime. Unfortunately, Harold had fallen asleep in his chair, quietly snoring. Miles rolled his eyes. Well, he thought, at least I now know how to get Harold to take a nap…

Pack Rat Dance

Miles scurried across the floor, up his makeshift ladder of books, and into his hidey-hole habitat, his little claws searching furiously for the earplugs he ordered on EBay. These ear plugs were guaranteed to block out the sounds of heavy artillery, and Miles had high hopes that they would also block out the screeching of Harold the ghost reading his, no pun intended, god awful poetry. Harold, you see, was an almost headless ghost, and Miles was, at this time, his furry packrat friend.

“Let’s be alone,” screeched Harold the ghost. “Together, forever. Let’s take a walk on the moon. Hmm. What rimes with moon? I’ve got it. We’ll pack a picnic, and bring a spoon.”

Miles was ecstatic when he put the bright orange earplugs into his rather mousey ears. Miles could not hear the awful rimes, the ridiculous words, and the unrythmetical cadence.

“I am finally free,” Miles shouted doing a little scuttle jump thing that made him feel like Fred Astaire. Unfortunately, Miles lacked that Fred Astaire grace, and suddenly, I know I’m not supposed to say suddenly, but it happened so very quickly, and there’s an adverb, oh well, on with the story, suddenly, with a capital, Miles found himself hanging upside down, his tail, much like a monkey, grasping on to the top of his hidey hole habitat, his little pack rat hands scrambling to grab Ernest Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dickens, Plato, or even Jack London, the books becoming a blur, as Miles swung around and around by the tail.

Miss Kitty

“I think Miss Kitty is going to be an excellent employee,” said Miles, washing his face with his packrat hands.

Harold sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the room with his head, amazingly enough, perched on his shoulders, and Miles sat on the little wooden chair next to the vintage butter churn. The house, swept, dusted, mopped, and tidied, looked, well, clean.

“Are we pouting, Harold, hmm? A little jealous perhaps?”

“She didn’t see me, Miles. She's too young. And she brought you stinky cheese.”

Miles took a deep breath and counted to 7, his favorite number. Actually, it was also his seventh life. Pack rats had 7 lives, and if they were good and honorable, they’d get to come back again as a pack rat, or as their favorite animal. Miles loved being a pack rat, but he hoped that the next time around, he could be a horse. Horses were such majestic creatures, and they could run like the wind.

Of course, if a pack rat were bad and dishonorable, they would have to come back and spend a life as a human. Miles read Aristotle and Socrates, and understood the value of taking a fearless and personal moral inventory. He realized he had made a few mistakes, and therefore, he wanted to be especially good this time around, so that he wouldn’t have to spend a lifetime as a human. Why, as far as Miles was concerned, that would be worse than living in hell.

“Harold, my dear friend. Miss Kitty is 26. She's lovely, and obviously, a hard worker. Do you have something against purple hair and nose rings? These things take time. Obviously, Miss Kitty is a perceptive human being, and although she hasn’t seen you yet, I’m certain that she will come around. She noticed the rocking chair, and bought that lovely cushion for you to sit on.”

“Do you really think so,” said Harold the ghost.

“Of course,” said Miles. “The house looks lovely. I’m going to have a cup of tea. Would you like to read me your latest poem?”

Proper Housekeeper

It proved difficult to hire a proper housekeeper. Bonnie, a scraggly older woman with a voice that grated on Miles ears, wanted to set traps for the “varmints” living in the house. Miles wrinkled his nose and in his mind, created a Bonnie trap. He pictured her, hanging upside down from the rafters, and laughed. Jean had excellent references, but she did not have the technology to receive messages, nor did she have a PayPal account.

Although the final candidate, Kitty, had a name that made Miles’ tail twitch, she had a cell phone, a PayPal account, and lived right up the road from them. In fact, after the interview, via the cell phone of course, Kitty rode her horse to the cabin, and came inside to inspect the premises.

“I hobbled my horse, Miss Patches, in your meadow. I need to make a list of necessities, you know, cleaning supplies and such. Won’t take but a couple of minutes.”

She walked across the floor, and stopped at the table to read the note Miles had printed out on the new printer.

“Dear Kitty,” the note said. “I have deposited $1000 into your PayPal account so that you can purchase supplies. Please let me know if this is enough to cover your expenses. All we have is an old broom. Feel free to text message me if you have any questions.”

“Curious,” said Kitty, admiring the rocking chair sitting by the window. Much to her amusement, the rocking chair was rocking. Harold, sitting in the chair, watched her carefully, telling Miles, “I don’t think she’s old enough.”

Miles, perched in his bookcase next to “Dune” told Harold to shut up. 

Kitty walked to the bathroom, and nonchalantly cleaned up the corner. She dusted off the little table with a rag she had in her pocket, and from her bag, she pulled out some dried herbs and placed them in an old vase. 

Satisfied with her decorations, Kitty took a notebook out of her bag, and started scribbling in it. “For sure I’m going to need a new broom, a mop, some detergent, and some Murphy’s soap,” she said, looking at the bookcase.

She strutted over to the bookcase, reading some of the titles. “Oh my,” she said, “Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dickens, and Plato. Some of my favorites.”

Miles dashed behind “Dune,” his tail scuttling back and forth like a metronome.

“Oh, and some cheese for the Packrat,” she said, carefully pulling out “Dune,” and staring right at Miles.

Summer Cleaning

           Miles convinced Harold to hire a house cleaner. It wasn’t easy—when it came to spending money, Harold acted like he was a penniless pauper. However, Miles told Harold that having a housecleaner would give Harold the opportunity to interact with living humans, and practice his blossoming ghost skills.

            Miles had searched Amazon, EBay, and EBSCOHOST searching for information on how to be a ghost. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any luck. Fortunately, during his searches, he uncovered numerous books that he felt needed to be in his library, including the self help book, “I’m Ok, You’re Ok,” which he tried reading to Harold. Personally, Miles thought self-help books were ridiculous, but he was willing to purchase one in order to assist Harold. Of course, he insisted that the self-help book remain upstairs in Harold’s room, because Miles didn’t want it marring his beautiful bookcase, which was filling up with classics.

            Miles decided that he should utilize his interpersonal communication and cognitive therapy skills to assist Harold. Although Harold had yet to materialize clothing on his bony skeleton, Harold could materialize his form and was having better luck keeping his severed head on his shoulders.

            Part of Harold’s therapy included singing. Miles had always known that music, a powerful healing force, worked well with grief, depression, and anxiety. Much to Miles surprise, Harold had a lovely bass voice when he sang old time songs. Indeed, when Harold sang, his entire face appeared unscarred and unblemished.

            “Harold,” Miles said, sitting in front of his mini iPad, “I’m going to text Lenny and ask him for the names of some housecleaners, hmmm.”

            Harold rubbed his white skull. Crimson lips appeared on his bone frame.

            “Tell Lenny that you want an older woman. One that doesn’t talk too much. One that believes in ghosts.”

            “Harold, old man, I don’t think we should mention ghosts. We don’t want Lenny to become suspicious, hmmm. Here’s what I’ve sent him: Dear Lenny, I am looking for an older housekeeper to come in twice a month to do some basic cleaning, such as sweeping, mopping, and dusting. She needs to be quiet, understand that I am still suffering from my ailment, and can’t be seen. She must never go into the attic. Please forward me names and phone numbers.”

            “You should tell Lenny that I’m feeling better, but I still can’t be seen or heard.”

            “Of course, Harold,” Miles said, hitting send before adding another word.

Active Listening

Miles peered through his clawed fingers. His long black whiskers twitched as if he were about to sneeze. He didn’t say anything.

“She made her living telling lies,” Harold continued staring at Miles, as if daring him to interrupt. “She said she loved me. She only wanted my money.”

Although Miles was pleased that Harold was making progress in his therapy (Miles was a licensed practitioner in Yorkshire), and was beginning to grasp that the lovely Lilith might have hired her new boyfriend to murder Harold, Miles was worried about Miles' sanity. Working with Harold was not only frustrating, time-consuming, and slow, working with Harold was having a negative impact on Miles perception of the world. Miles wisely kept his mouth shut, practicing his active listening.

Harold sniffled, then ambled over to the leather rocking chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

“And I don’t even have real tears to to…”

“Cry,” squeaked Miles, unable to continue his silence. He raised his right eyebrow mischievously, looking down at Harold. His tail, thick and long, moved back and forth of its own volition. He looked at it, and it obediently tucked itself against his body. His fur, a kaleidoscope of brown, gray, and black, covered most of his body. His beady but kind eyes sparked with intelligence.

“Harold, dear, pull yourself together. Shall we practice materializing today? That always makes you feel better, hmm? If you concentrate, you can make those eyes of yours blue, and then, why, maybe they can shed some of those tears? What do you say?”

Harold snuffed again, rubbing his nose with the top of his hand. His head started falling sideways, but Harold automatically caught it with his other hand.

“Nice save,” Miles said.

Harold scrunched his face, concentrating. Pink skin filled the holes in his head, and slowly, two very blue eyes began to form, covering the dark sockets.

“Jolly good,” Miles said.

“You think?”

“Absolutely stunning. Stop scrunching, Harold. You’ve got it! Go look in the bathroom mirror.”

Harold stood up from the rocking chair. His long boney legs, covered with, well, nothing, creaked. He walked across the floor, causing the dust to puff up around his boney toes.

“We really need a maid,” Miles said. “To do some spring cleaning.”

“Is it spring?”

“No, I believe it’s summer,” said Miles. “God-awful hot and dry season. It's not good for my fur.”

Gollum

Miles was trying to take a nap in his rather large hidey-hole in the new bookcase; one shelf was stuffed with bits and pieces of newspaper, Harold’s old shirt, and orange peels. Miles loved the way the peels made him smell, kind of like the sounds of sunshine.

Harold crawled down the stairs. He looked like Gollum, with his only adornment, a gold wedding band coated in diamonds, sparkling on his long, thin finger.

“Nothing else matters,” said Harold the Ghost when he got to the bottom of the stairs.

Harold sighed, which sounded like a whistle. In fact, his two front teeth, twisted into each other as if they were dancers doing a pirouette, wow, I can’t believe I spelled that right, were the perfect whistle.

Miles pretended to be asleep, covering his long rat’s nose with his little paws. His paws, almost hand-like, served him well, the long nails, of which he was quite proud, digging sweet hidey-holes or carrying away treasures.

“I wish I were dead,” continued Harold, turning his head up toward Miles. His eyes, once a merry blue, were empty sockets.

“I’m too depressed to apparate, to move, to write poetry.”

Well, that’s a welcome relief, thought Miles, refusing to buy into Harold’s little game. Maybe I’ll get some sleep today.

“To be, or not to be, no longer is the question,” Harold said. His voice got higher, escalating to the top floor by the time he reached question.

“Oh cats,” said Miles….

“Ha,” said Harold. “I knew you were awake.”

Wings

“If I had wings, I could fly thru the air,” said Harold the Ghost.

“Oh hogwash,” replied Miles, twitching his tail with venom. “You’re a wingless ghost old boy, and last time you tried to fly, you ended up in a puddle of bones. Stop this nonsense.”

“Yes, I know Miles,” Harold said, patting the top of his head. “I’m philosophizing. You know, to be or not to be kind of a thing. I thought you’d like to have a nice interaction with me.”

“Harold, I think you mean interpersonal communication. Could you speak with less of a whine? It really gets on my nerves. And holding an intelligent conversation with you would be, well, like having a conversation with a cat. Oh dear, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Please, don’t cry.”

Harold snuffled. Blood dripped from the holes in his skull that would have been his eyes and his nostrils. “You’d rather talk to a cat. I know; I’m such a bore. That’s what Lilith always said.”

Miles stood up on his hind feet, and handed Harold a pink handkerchief. “There, there Harold. Of course I’d rather talk to you. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re jolly good friends. Blow your nose, Harold.”

Harold blew his nose, causing a volcano or red snot to erupt from his nostrils.
“I think I’m going to bleed to death,” Harold said. “I’m feeling dizzy.”

Miles sighed, long and deep, while counting silently to ten. “You are dead, Harold. Shall we practice materializing? Turn those red eyes into a merry blue, hmm?”

“I don’t think I can practice, today. I feel, well, sad.”

“What about that dreadful, I mean, provocative and interesting, poem you’ve been working so diligently on. I’d love to hear another read thru.”

“Really,” said Harold.  “I finished another stanza, and I think it’s ready to go into your computer thing so we can print it out.”

Oh cats, thought Miles. He’s tricked me into helping him with another poem.

In Tune

 Harold the ghost wanted to be in tune with birds. He thought that sense he was a ghost, he could fly. Casper the ghost could fly, so why couldn’t he?

The cabin that Harold shared with Miles the pack rat had stairs leading to the top room, which housed the batteries to the new solar panels. Harold went outside on a moonlit night. The trees created a shadow that looked like a jester. Harold floated; the sensation made him feel like he had power and control. He laughed, which sounded like coyotes baying at the moon, and his laughter broke his concentration. Harold fell through the roof, and he continued his descent down the floor of the attic. His entire body hit one of the steps in the staircase, and he let go of his head, which rolled down the stairs with a crash.

He screamed ouch, a natural reflex I suppose. I mean, I don’t think ghosts should feel any pain, but Harold did like to carry on, and his head made a noise with every bounce, and as his body came unglued from the step, it did flips all the way down the stairs.

Miles, nestled in the new oak bookcase he won on EBay, awoke with a groan. “Am I having a nightmare? No, Harold is up to his no good shenanigans.”

Harold’s head rolled to the base of the bookcase. His eyes, two hallow holes, seemed to look up into eternity. His body, a crumpled heap, lie motionless at the bottom of the stairs.

“Good evening, Miles,” Harold said.

“Having a bad head evening, hmm, Harold,” Miles replied.

“I think I’m stuck,” Harold said, his empty eye sockets filling with blood.

“Oh, Harold. Don’t cry on the new bookcase.”

Miles had watched as the wonderful and professional Rex Mayo unpackaged the bookcase and set it up against the wall, right in front of what used to be Miles floor hidey-hole. When Rex repaired the floor, Miles had moved up the wall to his corner nook. The bookcase, however, smelled, and looked, brand new. The wonderful oak shelves would soon be filled with books, and Miles looked forward to reading the pages. “I’ll be sleeping with all my favorite authors,” Miles mumbled.

“What?” Harold shouted, which sounded like thunder and rattled the new double paned windows.

Miles sighed. “Concentrate, Harold. Like we practiced, yesterday. Think a happy thought.”

Harold thought about Lilith, his wife, but that seemed to make him angry, so he thought about his book of poems and winning a Pulitzer Prize, instead.

“Do you have a happy thought,” Miles asked.

Harold’s eyes shifted from blood red to brilliant blue. Skin materialized in splotches, and for a moment, his face resembled a patchwork quilt. Before Miles could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” Harold’s face had materialized.

“Good job, Harold,” Miles said with a yawn. “Now command your body to collect your head, and go back to bed.”

Always Bite the One You Love

Always bite the one you love

Because it makes them feel like a dove

Swooping in graceful arcs

That really really warm your heart.

“What do you think, Miles,” shouted Harold the ghost.

Miles was not in the mood to be trifled with. He sat near the front door, a new lock had been installed, the floors, windows, roof, toilet, and sink repaired, but everything in the cabin, including the door, still looked worn. Lenny had installed a satellite dish, so Miles had high speed Internet, and Rex had completed the basic house repairs and stabilized the table.
Miles was busy researching bookcases. Miles longed for an oak bookcase lined with autographed copies of all his favorite authors, such as Ernest Hemingway, Edwin Arlington Robinson, E.E. Cummings, John Steinbeck, Harper Lee, Kim Barnes, J. R. Tolkien, Edgar Allan Poe, Frank Herbert, Renée E. D'Aoust, Claire Davis, and Desiré Aguirre. He’d nestle between the books, with the scent of oak and warm pages.

Lenny, the ever so professional and dear man, had unpackaged Miles new smart phone and his mini iPad. Miles loved the feel of the keys on his finger, and better yet, loved touching the screen with his packrat tail. I have the world at the tip of my tail, he thought.

“Great rimes,” Miles said, staring at the screen.

“You really think so,” Harold replied.

“What I think is of no real consequence when it comes to Harold’s so called p-o-e-m-s,” Miles mumbled.

“Yes, quite right, old man,” Miles squeaked at the top of his lungs. “Harold, do you think you can take a break from your hard, and ever so delightful work, and come downstairs to look at bookcases.”

Harold ambled down the stairs, his head tucked under his right arm.

“Miles, I thought we agreed. No more home improvements.”

Milesed shut his eyes. “Quite right,” Miles said. “This was going to be a surprise, but, well, I need your advice. I wanted to purchase an oak bookcase for you in honor of your books to be.”

Harold’s eyes turned crimson. “Oh, Miles, that’s so thoughtful.”

“Oh, cats. Don’t cry, Harold. You’ll get the screen all blurry.”

Fed Up

“Miles,” whined Harold, his head slipping off the table and rolling along the floor, “this table is falling apart. I can’t keep my head on it.”

Miles peered out from his hidey-hole in the wall that separated the makeshift living room and bedroom in the small, dilapidated cabin Harold the ghost and Miles shared. 

“Oh bother, Harold," quipped Miles, whiskers twittering in anger. “Why don’t you keep your head on?”

Harold, groping for his head on the floor, picked it up gingerly, and with delicate bone white fingers (they were, indeed, bone), plunked it back on his neck.

“I think better when it’s off,” he intoned in a horrible, monotonous drawl. “And besides, I have a headache. That word you gave me this morning has got me all higgledy-piggledy. I can’t think of a word to rime with it. The truth is, Miles, I don’t even know what it means.”

Miles stood up on his two hind mouse feet, stretching out his snake like tail to balance him.  “I’m fed up with this,” shouted Miles.  “I was taking a nice nap, Harold. Dreaming of Swiss cheese, the kind with the lovely holes and delicate aroma, which makes my nose twitch in delight.”

            “You don’t even know what it means, do you,” Harold said with a sneer. Unfortunately, the sneer made Harold look like a raging demon.

            “What word are we discussing,” Miles said.

            “Anathema,” said Harold, his eyes flashing from blue to crimson.

            “Anathema,” said Miles, standing up tall and straight, "is a noun that translates to something or someone that one vehemently dislikes. For instance, the drummer/chainsaw artist was an anathema to Harold the ghost.”

            “Well, that’s all fine and dandy,” said Harold, “but you can’t possibly find a rime with anathema.”

            Miles rolled his eyes and switched his glorious tail back and forth.

            “In Canada,” said Miles, “there’s plenty of anathema, especially toward headless ghosts, whom they’d all like to roast.”

Is it Cheating?

Harold, he had what he claimed was a headache, made sobbing sounds though what would have been his nose had he had one. Actually, he had gotten better at apparating facial features onto his skeleton frame, but real salty tears he could not manifest. Sure, his eyes could pour out a virtual torrent of blood, but Harold longed for the old-fashioned type of tears that tasted like the sea.

His real dilemma, finding a word that rimed with anathema, which was his new word of the day, not only frustrated him, but also pained his brain. Miles the mouse had thrown it at him, claiming he (Harold) needed to expound upon his vocabulary to write better poems. Anyway, anathema was hard to rime with. And Harold was thinking of making up a word to go with it. Would that be cheating?

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to ask Miles. He would give Harold a self satisfied I am smarter than you kind of look that would really make Harold’s head, his self esteem, his entire ghostly visage, pang with pain. 

Harold took his head off and carefully placed it on the kitchen table. The table had four legs, one shorter than the other three, and in an attempt to compensate for this extreme unbalance, Miles the mouse had stuffed old newspaper under the length challenged leg.

Fortunately, Harold and Miles had hired a handyman to do some home improvements, and Harold thought they might as well add the table to the ever-growing to-do list. Rex Mayo, a house painter of world renown, also did handyman work, and said he could repair the flooring, install new windows, and stain the cabin. Surely, repairing the table would not be a problem for Rex.

Cat Wailing

“Your body can do what you want it to,” said Harold the ghost. His head, a bony skull, fell to the floor with a crash. “Oops,” sobbed Harold. “I can’t make it stay on. I have no words to say today. Rejections cover my walls, and my head won’t stay on. Anymore. I was a fool, to ever love you. Now you’re gone. My head won’t stay on.”

“Stop that cat wailing,” squeaked Miles the pack rat. 

“I’m not cat wailing,” replied Harold.  “I’m singing. I read this article that said music could calm the savage beast. I’m trying to focus so my head stays on.”

Miles looked at Harold with his beady little eyes.  His tail twitched nervously.  “Are you on drugs?”

Harold picked his head up from the floor, and with long fingers, he dusted it off lovingly.

“Don’t be silly, Miles. I’m just having problems keeping my head on. When it rolls around like that, it makes me dizzy.”

“I see,” Miles said.

An old blue Chevy truck pulled into the driveway, and Miles scurried up the wall to hide in his corner nook. Harold continued to sit at the table, and delicately laid his head on what was left of his shoulders.

A handsome man wearing a 49er baseball cap trudged into the cabin, an E-cigarette in his hand. “Hello, anyone home,” he said.

“Hello, you must be Rex Mayo,” Harold said, standing up and extending his hand as any gentleman would. Unfortunately, his head fell off and rolled across the floor.

Miles, in the safety of his corner nook, whispered, “He can’t see you, Harold; you’re invisible.”

Rex had a notebook and a tape measure, and he went through the cabin, checking the floors, the doors, the windows, and the fixtures. He stared at the stairs, and wanted to go up and check out the attic. However, his instructions were clear—he was not to venture beyond the first floor. Rex shrugged his shoulders, mumbling, “Won’t be an easy fix, but the cabin is solid, well built, and salvageable.”

After Harold scooped up his head, he shadowed Rex. “I like him,” Harold said, looking up at Miles. I think he’ll do a fine job.”

Miles rolled his eyes, hoping that Rex would hurry up and leave so that Miles could take a much deserved nap.

Bulls-Eye

“Last night, I dreamt I was born in a box of cookies,” said Miles the packrat, who looked like a six inch long hotdog wrapped in a pink bun. He wasn’t in a bun. In fact, he had crawled into a size 14-sock, and worked on chewing the toe out.

“A box of cookies,” said Harold the ghost, polishing the top of his head with a pink handkerchief. His wife, Lilith, claimed that pink made people suicidal, and she always gave Harold pink gifts: shirts, socks, hats, shorts, bandanas, and of course, handkerchiefs.

Harold carefully put his head back on his shoulders, and then wiggled it back and forth to ensure it wouldn’t fall off. Convinced he had it on square, he stood up and did a jig across the floor.

             “I think someone wants some cookies.”

“What I really want,” said Miles, “is a good cup of tea. Boiled for three minutes, then poured on top of the tea bag with one rounded teaspoon of sugar and a dash of milk, not cream.”

Harold guffawed, which almost caused his head to fall off. He held it in place with his left hand. The light came through the broken window, and the diamond on his finger, his only adornment, sparkled.

“Harold,” Miles said, enunciating each and every consonant and vowel, “We could text message Lenny, and ask him for the name of a reputable repair man. You know, get the faucet fixed and brace up these floors. And the windows. It’s nice having a breeze in the summer, but I understand that snow flies in the winter, hmmm?”

“I thought we were discussing cookies,” Harold said.

“I know it’s fairly warm now,” Miles said, ignoring Harold’s interruption, “but I’m looking at the big picture. I don’t think this pink sock is going to keep me warm in the winter. And I want a hot cup of tea.”

Harold sighed, which sounded like a scream of a banshee. “Miles, Miles, Miles,” Harold said. “Winter is months away.”

“I’m going to text message our friend, Lenny, hmm? It won’t hurt to get an estimate, Harold. Besides, you told me that your initial plan was to fix this cabin up for the lovely Lilith. What’s stopping you from completing your plan? And don’t you think you’ll be a more productive writer if your humble abode is cozy and warm?”

“Lilith,” Harold sighed. “Her smile, a rainbow, her eyes, the pot of gold.”

“That’s lovely,” Miles said. “If only our new equipment had arrived. And I had a cup of tea, well, we might have the start of a truly excellent poem, hmm.”

Miles looked up at Harold, hoping his words had found their mark. Bulls-eye.

“Ok, Miles. Text Lenny and find a repairman. You’ll get your cup of tea.”

“Bob’s your uncle,” Miles said, a joyous grin on his packrat mouth.

Saddle Up the Gray

A truck pulled into the dirt driveway, creating a puff of dust that billowed through the broken front window. Miles could no longer contain his sneeze, and letting go of his nose, let out a loud kerchoo. The reporter looked right at the hidey-hole, as Miles scampered across the floor, diving for the old leather rocking chair. “Hmm,” the reporter said.

Lenny stood on the porch, which drooped like an umbrella. The front door was open, and Lenny shouted, “Hello, anyone home.”

“Hey, Lenny,” the reporter said.

“Desiree, what are you doing here,” Lenny said.

“Got a ghost report,” Desiree said. “Kids up here partying, broke in, saw some ghost poem on the table made out of rat poop, and claimed a head knocked one of them over. Lost their iPhone when they ran out.”

Lenny laughed. “It looks ghastly, and rather ghostly inside and out, for sure. They were probably stoned.”

“So, what are you doing here, Lenny?”

“I’m setting up high speed Internet for Harold Siga, an old friend. We went to Sandpoint High School together, had the same English teacher, Marianne Love.”

“And where is this Harold,” Desiree said.

“He texted me, says he coming home in a couple of weeks. Kind of strange. Used to play in that band, Panhandle Bank, and hooked up with a money hungry woman, Lilith Ekans, who told him his lyrics needed to rime. They got married; Harold quit the band, sold his house on the lake, and moved to Mexico or Hawaii. Something like that.”

Harold started yelling, “My lovely Lilith is not money hungry. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s the light in my sky. And poetry does need to rime.”

Miles, crouched beneath the leather rocking chair, fondled some of the leather coming apart like strips of jerky. Hmm, he thought, Harold used to play in a band?

Desiree said, “Well, it seems odd. I mean, this place is a wreck, and the kids were really frightened. Where’s this Lilith character?”

“Didn’t sound like she’s with Harold anymore,” Lenny said. “Rumor has it that she ran off with some drummer slash chainsaw artist.”

“Chainsaw artist?” Desiree said.

“Ya, you know, carved moose and bears into trees and chunks of wood with a chainsaw,” Lenny said. “He wasn’t much of a drummer, and his chainsaw art wasn’t much to brag about, either.”

Harold’s face turned 50 shades of red, and Miles squeaked, “Harold, hold on to your head.”

Fortunately, Harold grasped both sides of his head, taking a deep breath before exhaling a ghostly moan.

“Getting windy,” Lenny said. “I better get to work. Good seeing you again, Desiree.”

“Tell Nancy I said hello,” Desiree said. “I’m going back home to saddle up the gray.”

The Whole Nine Yards

“I guess it’s like coming out of a coma,” Harold said to the reporter. Of course, the reporter couldn’t see, much less hear him. But Harold was convinced that if he kept trying, the reporter would, indeed, conduct a successful interview and publish it in all the papers. Perhaps Sandpoint Magazine or The New Yorker would pick it up. Miles hid beneath his hidey-hole, holding his nose with his pack rat claws, to stifle a sneeze. He was trying to keep a low profile; he was somewhat bored and didn’t want to frighten the retarded reporter too much.

“Oh, Miles,” Harold moaned, “She doesn’t appear to see me. You shouldn’t have erased my poop poem.”

“The problem, old man,” Miles squeaked, “is that you aren’t appearing.” Miles rolled his eyes. The reporter was clearly a lower level specimen, and probably freelanced for some dreadful tabloid. Those kids that had run out of the cabin a couple days ago must have told her about the head on the ground, the screaming, the poop poem, and the fine specimen of a pack rat that made them turn on their want-to-be thieving tails and exit stage left as quickly as possible.

One of them had dropped their iPhone, which had proved wonderfully useful for Miles. Indeed, he had called his mother in Yorkshire, as well as ordered her some fine stinky French cheese and wine with the little bit of money that remained in his Paypal account. Best of all, Miles had contacted 7B satellite services, and was expecting Lenny to show up any minute. As far as Miles was concerned, thoughts of the Internet were almost as good as thoughts of chocolate, banjo and bodhran music, cheese, and wine.

Miles rubbed his paws together. After he discovered that the world believed Harold to be alive and well, Miles had convinced Harold to provide Miles with his bank account information and security codes. At first, Harold refused, stating that his lovely wife needed the money more than they did. However, Miles told Harold that with a computer and a printer, Harold would be able to print out his wonderful poems. And before Miles could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” Harold had provided him with the information he required.

Turns out, Harold alive was worth much more than Harold dead. Harold’s wife had minimal access to Harold’s money. In fact, she only received a paltry monthly allowance, while Miles had control of the whole nine yards.

The Code

“The cupboard isn’t bare, Miles,” said Harold the Ghost. “Why must you always be so negative?”

“Harold,” said Miles, standing on all four feet, his whiskers quivering, “the cupboard is empty. It’s all fine and dandy that you can subsist on thin air. I, however, need sustenance. I’m sick and tired of stale oats and breadcrumbs.”

“Miles, Miles, Miles, my furry little friend. I promise you, as soon as I publish my book of poems, we will have financial resources galore. Why, I’ll even buy you that fancy computer you want, complete with a colored Canon printer.”

“Sell your book of poems? Harold, I hate to rain on your parade, but have you been taking your medication?”

“Miles, I just need a little bit of help on the editing.”

Miles groaned, holding his stomach. “Harold, I’m famished. Why don’t you give me the code to your bank accounts. If I weren’t so famished, I could assist you on your lovely book of poetry.”

Harold scratched the top of his head. “Really?”

Miles left hind foot began tapping the sagging floor. “Yes, Harold. You know I get positively grumpy when the cupboards are bare and my belly is in a continual state of famine. The code, Harold.”

“I don’t know, Miles.”

Miles sighed. “Well, I think I’ll have to go lie down, then, Harold. You can do the edits yourself. Really, I’m exhausted just having this conversation with you. By the way, the mini iPad comes with excellent editing software, so if we got one, I could type in your poems and edit them in a jiffy. In addition, if we ordered a printer, we could print your poems out and send them to a variety of publications.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Absolutely. The code, Harold, the code.”

Lenny's Back

Miles loved the iPhone, but what he really needed was a MacBook Pro or better yet, an iPad. Plus, the iPhone would surely be cut off in a matter of days, and Miles feared for his sanity. Shut off from the world, stuck in the outskirts of Sandpoint Idaho with Harold the headless ghost.

Miles had enough money left in his Paypal account to establish an account with an Internet provider. When Miles sailed across the ocean, he had planned on reporting on the cat rodeo, which would have earned him enough money to get back home. Unfortunately, when Miles arrived in Montana, his cousin, Buck, had been devoured by the famous, and treacherous, rodeo cat, Little Jamie. Devastated, Miles left Montana, and after catching a truck ride, ended up in Sandpoint, Idaho, where he was stranded.
Miles needed more money, and if he had an Internet connection and a computer, he could find work writing, and earn money in his PayPal account. He Googled dish networks in Sandpoint, and when he found a company called 7B, he started sending them text messages.

Someone named Lenny Hess responded. Miles texted Lenny his address, and Lenny texted back, “Is that you, Harold? I thought you were in Hawaii with Lilith.”

Excited, Miles texted back, “You know Harold?”

Lenny replied, “You’re such a prankster, Harold. I thought maybe that wife of yours had killed you and tried to run off with your money. Course, your dad fixed it so she wouldn’t get a cent.”

Miles replied, “LOL.”

Miles made arrangements for Lenny himself to come out and install a dish that would provide him with the high speed Internet he required. In addition, Miles did some research via the iPhone and discovered that the world thought Harold was still alive.

“Harold,” Miles squeaked. “I need to talk to you about our finances.”