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Bobby and the Big Time Swing

 The angry, unfamiliar star gets closer every day. It throws mean light over Cretaceia. Makes the gem-green jewel of Jurassica look sickly under nasty light, blanches the red deserts and crimson badlands around Triassican searing white. Ferns lilt. Fliers chirp ugly possibilities on the wing and it all rains down like so many bad premonitions. 


But Bobby ain’t scared. 


Bobby is big as a mountain, old as the sea. His people are the backs of the sky and the muscles of this mighty Earth, each one a nation containing multitudes. Starlight seeps down Brachiosaurus scales to drench the world in constellation light. His steps beckon cartographers as each one reforms valleys, reshapes the deltas. The unwelcome star threatens all that. Bad dreams beckoning fire and ash. 


But Bobby ain’t scared. 


The big-brains on two little feet tell him the Plan. Simple as can be, simple as gentle breezes and succulent plains of ferns for munching, simple as all things natural and correct for something so titanic. Bobby uproots himself, throws mountains from his flanks, stomping new seas in his wake. Thinks about the plan the same way the constellations change across eons. One word. One purpose. 


Swing.


Each step a fathom, a whole damn league, stride upon stride until without much notice the continents are different. Bobby is a big stepper. Spectators abound. Fliers choke riot above in frantic colors until they don’t, leaving all that Big Empty between Bobby and the Rock. Each breath a hurricane, thick and sweet and drenching this place in twirling storms that’ll nourish ten thousand forests for ages to come. Bobby stands tall and vast, tail flexing. The Star That is A Rock gets closer, bares angry flaming teeth that blaze and gnash. Closer by the heartbeat till everything is pale, shadowless. 


Bobby ain’t scared. 


Bobby does what he came to do. 


And swings.

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