There was a monster fishing by the lake. His name was Gerald. He was small, round, and green, the color of all proper monsters. His teeth were long and sharp. His fur was prickly and spiked. But he was, all things considered, a rather pleasant fellow. His grin was roguish and infectious, even if there were a few too many teeth for comfort. He helped little old ladies cross the street, and tried never to frighten children or small animals. His was a happy contented life, that monster named Gerald, and he was never more happy or contented then when fishing.
With a rod in one claw and a picnic basket in the other, he made his way every Thursday afternoon, to the old bridge on the shores of Lake Cranberry. To my knowledge he has never caught a single fish in fifteen years of trying. This may be because there are no fish in Lake Cranberry. A small family of ducks, and a lonely old swan comprise the entire wildlife population. But that doesn’t stop Gerald. I think he enjoys the peace and quiet, the freedom from prying eyes and startled screams. Fishing on the lake is his sanctuary, or it was until they opened the boathouse. Now people come on special ferries just to see the Monster of Cranberry Lake and his fishing rod. I don’t know why he still goes out there, every Thursday to his old spot, in spite of the gawpers, the tourists, and yes, the occasional nutter. But then, I’ve never understood what the fuss is about Gerald. He’s always seemed normal to me, but of course, he is my brother.
Antonio Urias 
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