This week, Chuck Wendig tasked his inky cohorts with writing flash pieces that includes 3 elements of our choosing from lists he provided. This was a timely challenge considering the weird picture I'd found while searching for a cute dinosaur picture for my husband's facebook wall. It really served me right for googling "Dinosaur love." So, disgustingly inspired, I chose "Erotica," "Dinosaurs," and "Addiction" for my 3 elements. "Hank, the Last," is the fruit of that strange choice. Enjoy, if you can. :)
Hank, the Last
He's the biggest I've ever seen: a tall drink of water with a long drink of love. At least, I hope so. He hasn't shown any interest in me yet, still hiding his monstrous member, but he will. They always do. Some would say I'm abusing my power, messing with history, but I say history was messing with me. The books, the museums, even Barney with that big purple pussy: they were all temptations, but I had the know-how to satisfy myself. I built the machine, I perfected time travel, I have the right to do whatever (and whoever) I want. Of course, I’m not so deluded to realize this is a fetish unlike any other. Some might call it an addiction, a perversion, my colleagues even call me mad, but isn't all love madness?
I believe so. I also believe I’m about to make hard madness to the sexiest Tyrannosaurus in the world.
Gender isn’t important to me. Species, either. All that matters is the closeness, the warmth of what was long though to be cold-blooded against my belly, and sweet songs of release. I’ve had my eye on this one for a while. I call him “Hank,” for no reason except I’m tired of calling every lover “Dino.” He deserves better than that. The first time I saw him, I’d just dismounted a Stegosaurus. As her cloacae closed, my eyes were opened to the beautiful Hank, feasting only a few yards away. Mid-swallow, he turned to me, gnashing his teeth and shaking the blood from his claws. It was love at first sight.
My colleagues have threatened to destroy the machine when I come back, but they can’t destroy shit if I never return to my own time. If they did, they’d be destroying something far more precious than a hunk of magic metal. They’d destroy true love like none of them has ever known.
I try to explain this to Hank, but he doesn’t understand my words yet. My touch, however, lifts his head and starts him purring. I love him already, so much that I don’t mind when he growls at me, when he scratches, when he swings around for an embrace and his monstrous desire nearly impales me.
I imagine our future. Now, it’s all sweetness and sweat, but once we know each other better, I imagine how playful we’ll become: biting, spanking, lashing each other to the surrounding trees and teasing our bodies without touching. The others don’t seem to understand. Even my ex-lovers look at us like we’re crazy. That crazy scientist man and his Hank. Perhaps no one understands true love except those in the thick of it, those who savor the duality of rough and soft skin meshing into one swath of salty salvation.
In the beginning, I was nervous about this. Even under the spell of love at first sight, I worried that my colleagues could be right, that every judgmental glare was warranted. But now I know how real this is. I’m done feeling bad about love. I’m done worrying about my colleagues too. The last shred of concern fell away when Hank’s tail tore a hole in the machine’s hull. I could have patched it, but I found it much more fun to destroy it with him. We tore it apart, piece by piece, and then, made love in the sunset.
At least, I thought it was sunset. The sky turned rosy like usual, but now, it’s red. Deep red, like stagnant blood.
It’s black now. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. But somehow, the world is still visible under the ink, like we ourselves are glowing. Hank is particularly brilliant. He stares at the sky like we all do, but he doesn’t seem afraid. It’s as if he knows what’s about to happen to us.
I know what will happen, too. Since we destroyed the time machine, I wondered when the end would come for us. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.
Many species flee, but Hank and I stay, staring up at the empty night. It expands and bends down to meet us, nearly whispering, “This is the end. Enjoy it.” I lean against Hank and he purrs. No, we’re not afraid. How can you be afraid of emptiness when your life is so complete?
“It was like this in the machine,” I whisper to him. “Every time I came to find you, it was like this: darkness—and hope.”