Dinosaur Plots

     Albert Saurus dropped another handful of leaves in the firetray and watched the heat nibble their brittle edges. After several silent minutes, interrupted only by the faint crackling sound, the soothing smoke filled the air. Al inhaled deeply, and smiled -- then resumed his work.
      He immediately recognized the next manuscript's brittle, pulpy texture: mammal paper. A peculiar affectation of their type, this pressed stuff. It was one among many affectations. Not only did they persistently print on this awkward material, they also -- and this was despite their thumbs, admittedly useful things, those thumbs -- they also printed with carved rocks instead of writing. Worst of all, their stories were sorely lacking --...they needed -- ....
      Face facts, Al thought, mammals can't write.
      Not for lack of trying, he added, hefting the heavy, mammalian manuscript. The real culprit was that hot mammal blood coursing through their veins. It always ran off with their heads, into pits of pointless philosophy and meaningless themes. E for effort, good intentions and all that, but they wouldn't know a good plot if it whistled the mating call at close range. No, for good plots, only cool heads prevailed.
      Balancing the text in his tiny hands, he shuffled to his workspace by the office window -- carefully lifting his tail so it wouldn't scatter the wastepile again. The warm sunlight tickled his leathery skin like supple fingers, but the fingers seemed less eager today. Those shimmering fingers had showed little interest yesterday, and even less the day before that. And long before then. They'd been weakening for...how long? Who knew?
      Pity. They made mammal stories easier to take.
      Sighing, Al wiggled and wriggled until comfortably seated. Carefully slipping a claw under the cover, he opened the manuscript. The sharp, angular text read:

      Citadel of glory, citadel of dreams. Citadel of violence, citadel of peace. The citadel, on the slippery slope of the towering mountain, patiently, paternally pondered the people below. It heaved cloudy sighs, sang snowy songs and coughed thundering coughs, raining reminders of creation on the village nestled so very far beneath this citadel of action. Citadel of life, citadel of death.

      Al paused momentarily, enjoying the sunlight. Faint though it felt, it still freed his mind of early morning shadows. He ran a tired claw over his ribs, waited til the satisfying sensation registered, then studied the story now staring up from his workspace. Nice charge, mammal. You tried. But no one would read the whole thing after that opening. Still, the sun, smoke, and soothing scratches aroused Al's sympathies. Okay, the tale started slowly, but maybe cutting could keep it interesting. Maybe it built to a good ending. And maybe, with a little help, one of those fuzzy little creatures could get published. Fired with enthusiasm, he hooked the last page and opened to it. Breathing deeply, he swallowed more sweet smoke and resumed reading:

      And so they stood at the peak of their citadel, surveying the ruins of their lives, their livelihood, their liberty. The world remained indifferent; unaware that they had seen such destruction, such devastation. The world lived on, the world forged ahead, the world continued as before. They would rebuild somehow. They would be reborn, someday. They would remind the world that life continues as surely as the citadel still stood, watching them as always. They would see the citadel and remember, and continue, and someday thrive. Every day, they would look up and remember as they saw the citadel of violence, the citadel of peace. The citadel of order, the citadel of chaos. The citadel of death, the citadel of life.
The End

      Nope, one more kill against the mammals. Poor critters. Puzzling, too; sure they were small and helpless, but they had such energy, such contagious enthusiasm -- even after dark. And they took to the physical act of writing so naturally. Why, Al asked the swaying ferns outside, why do mammals write such bad stuff?
      No answer. Not from the ferns, not from him.
      Needing a boost, Al gingerly set the mammoth, mammal story aside and approached the manuscript pile. His swaying tail scattered the remains of today's lunch -- better have the secretary clean that up -- and leaving the cozy sunlight felt like a trip through the Black Puddles. Or a long walk uphill. Still worth it, he reminded himself, for the chance to read good writing again. Dinosaur writing.
      The beckoning slush pile suddenly seemed filled with mammalian output -- didn't they ever sleep? -- but careful digging finally revealed a solitary work by one of Al's compatriots. The sturdy, familiar pages of woven reed seemed somehow solid, their rough texture comforting. They felt real, not like the slick, shallow paper the mammals preferred. Al easily lifted the slender work, and lumbered back to his workspace, scattering still more of his lunch with a nervous, twitching tail.
      Reaching the workspace, Al tossed the dino story on the level surface and methodically seated himself. The instant he became comfortable, the soothing, golden fingers abruptly faded. Grumbling, he craned his thick neck forward and up to see what had stolen the precious sunlight. Uncontrolled brontos and rexes, attracted by dim curiosity, sometimes approached the office and had to be vigorously shooed away, but there was no shooing for the thick clouds drifting overhead.
      Determined to enjoy the experience, sunlight or no, Al flipped the cover page and began reading:

      Rex Tyro thundered across the level sand, ignoring the silver-grey spikes Steg the Enforcer leveled at him. Pain didn't bother him. He could take pain. What he couldn't take was this tough guy thinking he could handle the best. Rex was almost willing to let him go, just out of pity, but Steg would've bragged, and Rex would never let anyone brag that they'd beaten him. At Steg loomed before him, he coiled his powerful legs and leaped! His opponent was caught off guard, and as he landed behind the so-called "enforcer", he spun on one foot and hooked the other under Steg's gritty, armored hide. Whipping his tail, he built up momentum and flipped the foolhardy foe onto his back, then went to work with his shiny-white, razor-sharp teeth. Within minutes, Steg was reduced to a tangled tatter of bones. As always, Rex Tryo was triumphant.

      Sunlight or no, this was good writing. Exciting, compelling opening.Readers knew exactly where they stood.

      As he finished off the unfortunate Steg, Rex's keen senses heard movement behind him. He spun like a sandstorm, and found himself face-to-face with 'Plo. "You were incredible, Rex," she whispered, "but did you really have to kill him?
      "Yeah, Steg was a good pilot, but it had to happen eventually. Ever since we crashed on this strange, god-forsaken world while searching the universe for others like ourselves, he's been itching for a fight." Turning to study the bloody bones at his feet, he added, "And I guess he got one."
      "He certainly did. But with Steg gone, do you think we'll ever be able to return home? Our ship is damaged so badly, and the creatures around here don't seem very advanced, even though they look so much like us."
      "Well," Rex said, wiping the dirt from his claws, "I guess we'll have to explore this alien planet in the hopes of finding the materials we need to repair the ship. Stay close by me, though -- I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

      And there's the plot. Somehow, the hero and heroine would have to escape this brutal place and return home. Excited by the story's breathtaking pace, Al read anxiously, clenching and unclenching his claws. The tip of his tail twitched with anticipation, and his breathing quickened.
      He didn't notice when his leaves stopped burning and his calming smoke ran out.


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      Henry had gathered his belongings, and was about to leave for the day when his employer, Mr. Saurus, shuffled out of his office clutching a manuscript under one arm. Henry smiled and greeted him. "Hi, boss. I was about to call you; thought maybe you'd worn yourself out reading." That was, of course, a lie. When Mr. Saurus was awakened too quickly, he often snapped at the responsible party. After what had happened to his unfortunate tail,  Henry never again disturbed his employer.
      "Thanks, Henry," the boss responded wanly, "but I'm fine. Great, in fact. Nudge-and-go for a while, there, but then I found this --" he displayed the manuscript "--in the slush pile. Hey, have a look at the ending. Is it brilliant or what?" He slowly leaned forward, extending his tail for balance, and offered his secretary the manuscript. Henry sidestepped toward his boss, warily watching for signs of sleepy irritation, then plucked the manuscript from Mr. Saurus's shiny claws and hastily returned to his workspace. While the boss lurched upright, Henry wiped his fur with a trembling paw and opened to the last page. If the clumsy reed paper hadn't told him everything, the methodical scrawl finished the job: reptile tales. Henry sighed under his breath and began breathing:

     Rex wiped a tear from his eyes, and placed the last stone on the burial mound. Now that poor, beloved 'Plo had perished, Rex was the last of his kind on this alien world. Even if he could find materials, he had no means of navigating the hazards of space. No, he was stuck here, a permanent guest in this primitive place, and like it or not he would have to survive. Someday, if others were sent to find him, they might see some sign of his presence. If only he weren't so alone...
      At that moment, the lean, limber dino he'd rescued earlier approached him. "Hello," she greeted him.
      "Hi."
      "You stay here, now?"
      "Yes, I stay here. I have no choice."
      "You strong."
      "Yeah, but I hope I can fight boredom as well as I fought poor Steg. Not to mention the loneliness."
      "Lonely? You not be lonely. You live with us."
      "You?!"
      "Yes. You come and live in the Marsh of Reeds, with us. With me." And she moved toward him suggestively.
      Rex hesitated, then smiled. "I'll miss 'Plo, but I think I'd like living with your people. Okay, lets' go to your Marsh of Reeds." She began walking, and he followed. "But you know," he added, "If I'm going to stay with you, I'd like to know your name."
      "I called Eva. You called Rex?"
      "Yes, but my friends cal me Rana."
      And together, they headed for the Marsh of Reeds, their home.

      This was the great ending? Where was the epic sweep? The grandeur? Not to mention originality, Henry added. Mr. S must've published, oh, five or six stories like this. Sure, they sold okay, but imagine if they included an occasional mammal story. Wow! Things would really take off! He was about to repeat these comments aloud when he smelled a familiar melange of odors: bittersweet herbs and the metallic reek of fresh blood, competing with an acrid, almost overwhelming smell of smoke. He turned slowly, and found Mr. Saurus leaning over his shoulder. "Smoking again, boss?"
      The boss reared up to his full height, then smiled -- at least, it looked like a smile. "Like I said, Henry, it was nudge-and-go for a while. The smoke really helps me get through that slush pile. You should try it sometime."
      "No thank you, sir."
      Mr. Saurus's eyes narrowed. "You sure? You're welcome to use some of my leaves if you want."
      Henry shook his head. "Sorry, but I can't."
      "Really? Why's that?"
      "Singes our fur. That's why you'll never see any of my -- er, family -- trying it. We learned our lesson long ago."
      "A shame."
      "Yes, sir, our loss."
      Mr. Saurus nodded. "Yep. Your loss. Yes..." His voice faded, and his eyes momentarily unfocused -- then snapped back into position. "Oh, yeah, before I forget -- was I right? Is that a classic ending or what?"
      No. But Mr. S seemed very excited. Any contradictions might hurt his feelings -- or worse. "I'll have to read the whole story sometime." Well, it was the truth; Henry always printed the stories for publication. He'd be forced to skim the whole thing, eventually.
      "That's the spirit!" The boss nodded enthusiastically. "Learn to spot the good stuff, and maybe you'll fill my footprints when I retire."
      "Perhaps I'll even write one..." Henry didn't mention the story he'd slipped into the slush pile, under a pseudonym.
      Mr. Saurus, heading for the exit, paused. "Write? Uh, sure, Henry. Why not? Maybe someday you'll do just that. Say, if you do, you be sure to give me a copy, okay?" As he continued through the exit, a breeze lazily shook the ferns. He wrapped his tiny arms about himself, as though locking out the chill.
      "Sure, boss." Henry followed him through the narrow exit, carefully avoiding the tail that sometimes behaved like it had a mind of its own.
      "But right now, you keep your eyes open. You get to read a lot of good stuff, so maybe you can learn something.There's still a few good writers around." As he wandered into the forest, carefully watching for black puddles, he added, "Boy, we dinos are really going places!"