Homer and me waited by the door. Who knows what was out
there? Not us.
We told each other stories about doing brave things, like
how we almost got that squirrel or that time we jumped five feet in the air. We
told stories until we felt tired and closed our eyes for a while.
Bang! Outside… a noise. We sat up listened. What was that? A
monster, probably. Probably one that was
ten feet tall and stomped through parking lots and itched its butt on
buildings. And then we imagined living the monster life…
We would awake in a new place every morning and wonder how
we got there. We’d be curled around branches up in a tree with our skin turned
to leaves for hiding. Or we would have squeezed ourselves into a drain pipe,
and that’s why our back was achy. Or we would flatten ourselves out and flap
ourselves over the entire roof of a house. Any way, we’d get up as soon as the
sun would go down. We’d ring ourselves out, pop things back into place. If we
were in a grumpus mood we might puff ourself up to fifteen or twenty feet or
more. Enough that we could put an eyeball into second story windows.
We’d flump our feet through the forest, or down streets
without lamps, sleepily walking no-where to see where it takes us. We’d think
of breakfast and make sure we looked monster-y enough. We’d give ourselves shaggy
fur or tusk-y teeth or maybe a hound-dog nose and ears like bats. Maybe today
we’d have massive paw pads and claws and a slobbery grin. And then we’d hear
it, calling us in the distance. Time to run.
