Tank Green/ March 23, 2024/ Writing Walking

Photo of a large, old, hollowed out tree trunk with a large circular opening, like a mouth. It is surrounded by ferns, there is grass before it, and trees behind it.

Photo of a large, old, hollowed out tree trunk with a large circular opening, like a mouth. It is surrounded by ferns, there is grass before it, and trees behind it.

I know it doesn’t look like it, but this is a dinosaur; I found it in Knole Park. It has deliberately camouflaged itself to look like a dead log, but if you stare at the wide, circular opening, you’ll come to see that it’s actually a giant mouth, beckoning you to enter. Dinosaurs are always hungry, even dead ones. This is a standard natural history fact, and it’s why there are armed security guards around the National History Museum at night. Just saying.

Anyway, point is, this dinosaur, whom we shall call Deadloggosaurus, wants you to enter, but you’d be wise to hold off on that. For starters, at night, hoards of demonic creatures come scuttling out. Some of them carry a bag of rosehip powder which they spend the night pouring down human noses. Ever wake up with inexplicable allergies? Now you know why.

Other things which come out of Deadloggosaurus’ mouth include: walking bananas with razor-blade-arms whose sole aim is to make you think a piece of paper just cut you; mini octopi carrying long bows who are the real cause of your pins and needles; and rancid vanilla bean pods who are behind that smell you can’t quite locate and on which you blame the cat/dog/spouse.

There are also puffer-fish-looking beasties that stick you with a spine and then blow into it causing blisters. They mainly strike unsuspecting walkers during the day, so that they can deflect blame onto ill-fitting shoes. Honestly, there are loads of different types of beasties. I could go on and on. Don’t worry, I won’t.

I mean, you can go in Deadloggosaurus’ mouth if you want, and I suspect that if you are a risk-seeking teen then you’re probably raring to go at this point, but I’m just saying: I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s highly unlikely that you’ll ever come back out, or if you do, there’s no way you’ll be in one piece. Deadloggosaurus only wants the meaty parts: it’ll spit out your tendons and bones, so at least your loved ones will have something to bury I suppose.

Anyway, if you do go in, the first thing you’ll have to do is engage in epic battle with the hoards of demons which emerge out of the various types of slime mould and jelly fungus which live within its cavernous mouth. You’d be wise to take some mould and mildew remover with you to assist. After that, you’ll encounter Deadloggosaurus’ masticating teeth. Actually, they’re not teeth in the regular way of imagining them, they’re more like a pair of giant gills which push inwards rather than out. They will crush you into a nice goo if you get your timing wrong.

Once—in reality if—you get past that, fuck knows what you’ll find. To be honest, I’ve heard rumours that there is a cave and a fire and our earliest human ancestors are just sitting around it, chilling; telling stories, singing songs, painting, and weaving. Seems a bit unlikely if you ask me, but you never know. I mean, if I was forced to live inside a giant dinosaur log for a millennia, I would also be telling stories and singing to pass the time, so I suppose it could be true. 

My personal view is that it’s better just to observe from the outside and just say things like, ‘wow, Deadloggosaurus – I worship and venerate your clear and omniscient power!’ This is because Deadloggosauri actually have quite large egos and if you stoke them enough, they’ll make sure the demon hoards don’t mess with you on your interview or exam day. Just saying: insincere flattery is what I’d do; your life is up to you though.

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