Hungry, determined, and expecting an easy meal, the monster slithered out from beneath the little girl’s bed at midnight-o-one. The monster had done this hundreds of times before and devoured its victim within seconds of its arrival, but this time… the monster’s curiosity outweighs its desire to feed.

The monster doesn’t understand, says the monster, smacking its wet lips over wicked fangs. You don’t say “sure,” to the monster. You beg the monster for your life. You cry and plead with the monster for mercy.

The girl, Makena, it would seem by the sign above her bed, sits up, straightens her long black braids, and looks the monster straight in its bulbous eyes. I’m not scared of you. If you want a rise out of me, tough noogies. But if you want a late-night snack, here I am.

Rise and shine, Space Rangers!

Evan woke up on Thursday the way he woke up most Thursdays of 4th grade — resentful of anything trying to get him out of bed. His Buzz Lightyear alarm clock which blasted off for the second time, which meant school started in 52 minutes, which meant he had 32 minutes to catch the bus — Bus 21. Mom would be in shortly to rush, rush, rush him through breakfast and then his babysitter/neighbor/former-best-friend’s big sister Lizzie Lim would ring their doorbell so that Evan and his former-best-friend Davis Lim could walk to the bus together. So annoying, he thought, playing out the whole series of events in his mind.

“Evan-bun!” Mom called, honey in her voice, “Wakey-uppy-time!”

“Just don’t be boring,” was Norton Sandlebee’s snide but honest response to those who were aghast at the critic who seemed to loathe most every creative work made by anyone. “Be unique to you. Leave nothing unrevealed.” And it was that sentiment that gave birth to this wholly new practice of Making - something truly dangerous. And Sandlebee loved it.

“That’s what I’m saying, man, just look at her — look at how she is, man. Look at her body and her hands, man — you see what I’m saying?”

Rocky and Hank peered over the back of the couch in the common area of the San Diego ComfortCity Senior Village. Alice Hannigan, or a woman claiming to be Alice Hannigan, was checking in at registration. She wore a pink skirt and blazer and a cartload of sweet perfumes that could be smelled from across the room.

Hank wasn’t sold. “I don’t know Rock. Looks like regular old… regular old Alice to me.”

Rocky stiffened. “She don’t look old. And what do you know anyway, how hungover are you?”

“Not even hung-ober,” Hank slurred, “Just maybe still a little drunkish from last nigh or this morning, hard to say.”