They call me old, though I never asked to be.
Not that there’s anyone left to call me anything these days.
Once, I was thunder. I shook the earth with every step. Herds parted when I passed, and the sky looked down with wary admiration. I was Tyrannosaurus Rex. Not just the king. The storm. The shadow that moved.
But that was a long time ago.
Now, I wake with the sun, and my bones crack like dry branches. My tail, once a scythe of war, drags behind me like an old memory. There’s a limp in my right leg—the one that broke when I chased that fool triceratops across the blackrock river. I got him, though. I always did.
There are no challengers now. No rivals. No mates. No trees worth roaring for. The swamp I once ruled has dried to a shallow crater filled with biting flies and the ghost of water.
Sometimes, I dream of the great chase—the thrill of it, the glory. My roar used to echo across the valley and send flocks of winged things into the clouds. Now, when I roar, it’s mostly just to hear it. It rattles in my throat like a loose stone and dies before it reaches the trees.
But today feels different.
The sky is strange—too quiet, too yellow. The birds, the little ones that still exist, have flown east. I saw them go this morning, one long ribbon fleeing the sun. My nose tells me what my heart already knows: something is coming.
Something big.
Not claws-and-teeth big. Sky-big. Time-big.
Something no tooth can bite and no roar can stop.
I make my way to the last good hill. The one with the old bone tree on top, where the wind always smells like the sea and the earth is still warm underfoot. I’ve stood there before. After battles. After love. After loss.
I will stand there again.
The hill welcomes me like an old friend. I lay my head against the stone and feel it pulse, like the heartbeat of the world. The sky begins to weep fire.
It’s beautiful.
I am not afraid.
I was Tyrannosaurus. I was the storm.
And even the end must remember me.
The CJBuzz 