
THE PINHEADED DINOSAURS WITH THEIR TINY SKULLS by Kellie Rankey
We think about shaving and razors and haircuts and the whole fashion of manipulating the body into approved shapes. We wish our teeth were sharper, stronger.
We think about shaving and razors and haircuts and the whole fashion of manipulating the body into approved shapes. We wish our teeth were sharper, stronger.
I listened to their conversation and paced a circle around the fire. Drank my beer. I didn’t know who Dayna was but something sounded heavy and neglected in the other guy’s voice.
Sometimes, we talk. Sports, TV—that sort of thing. Every so often, he invites me for drinks, but I always make up an excuse.
You ain’t never punched nobody before. But you know how it’s done. You’ve seen enough movies.
Like the Ship of Theseus—was it the same skateboard if the deck was different? In my mind it was part of a lineage.
Fall asleep. Wake up to darkness, the sound of tiny nails on cardboard. Find the mouse, dead for real this time, before work.
You, waking from dreams of dinosaurs, exploring deep in the ocean, worlds where Care Bears and Popples are real, listening.
Every hour or so, we fell silent to watch metal beasts bellow and tumble into the night sky, forgetting about the bug bites we collected on our ankles.
You mutter “Fuck you” under your breath at his daily counting routine, for the apathy it shows for the hell the world is girdled in.
He would sometimes repeat it under his breath. Chops, have to have chops, have to have chops.