Today’s theme: dinosaurs knitting.
Clack of bone on bone, scent of dragonbreath and sweetbread, ‘fetch me another tea, dear?’ and the claws, the claws, the claws. They still smoke. Knit one. Eyes slide around young blood. Pearl two. Piles of doilies, jumpers and Pom Poms. A patchwork of quilts and a million po-faced dolls sprawling over the ground like so many dead, so many prized hides as they feast on 50cent lamingtons and sigh. Booties to keep little chubby bubby bits warm and a scarf and a bobble hat for the kids and a jumper grinning square clown teeth to stuff the stockings. Thin fingers wrapping around yarn like a long lover’s trist – the perfect wrists to give your neck a twist. ‘It’s ten dollars for the beanies love’.
God had called it a day, and the world was ruled by terrible beasts with wide smiles of toothy splendour. The earth was complete, and time stood still, smoking a cigarette in the heart of a volcano. And all was at peace as violence shrieked through the hazy hot foliage and small scaly things scuttled under the feet of giants.
But Myrtle couldn’t cast on her knitting. There was a fetching scarf she had in mind, blood red and snug as a skull in its skin, but t-rex arms are doomed never to meet, and try though she might, she couldn’t get the wool on the needles, and damn God, damn the universe, damn the clocking off of time, this fucking scarf was getting made if she had to wait a thousand years for her arms to slink out of their sockets and reach for the sky. Myrtle was evolving and she didn’t give a fuck who she pissed off while doing it.