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acrylics 2010,
Turanoceratops tardabilis.
Hunt: Blue Mist
Turonian, Late Cretaceous (90 million years ago)
Now Uzbekistan
A liquid green light filters down through cycad fronds; I feel the bars of warmth ripple across my back. Beyond my half-closed eyes, the orange glow and the scent and excitement of deepening dusk.
A noise across the water; I lift my head.
My heart throbs faster in the cavern of my ribs. The ground throbs too with the passing of feet. The sun dips lower, spreading its gold across the lake, silhouetting the shapes of my prey. I see their great curved backs; smell the damp rising from their tough, scaled skins. I feel a slight stab of fear at their great horns and shielded heads but my hunger eclipses my apprehension.
The colours in the sky bleed out to a cool blue. Mist rises from the water and ebbs at the shore. I leave the wet closeness of the cycads and feel the still-warm sand beneath my claws. The mist has washed out my vision: volcanic black sand, the rest an eerie blue. The scent of my prey rolls in over the lake and I revel in it. I am panting.
My blood is up.
I pad over the sand, my footprints like a dark trail behind me. The mist is my cover and there is no wind to carry my scent. I dart through the shallows between stark, blackened rocks. They stab the sky like teeth beyond the shore.
Then between the rocks, a sharp cacophony of sound: shrieks tearing through the misty stillness. A flock of birds rise and I desperately snatch at their small, feathered bodies until the sky fills with their torn paper shapes. My prey is spooked. I catch the white flash of their wide eyes. The surface of the lake boils with their stampeding feet as they make for the forest. I hear twigs cracking in the distance, the noises fading.
Birds sweep across the sky. Now there is only my shallow breathing. And the cold of the water as it runs down my skin. And the coldness of hunger. And the chill of the approaching night.
Text by
the winner of the Writing Contest I announced.
Turanoceratops tardabilis.
Hunt: Blue Mist
Turonian, Late Cretaceous (90 million years ago)
Now Uzbekistan
A liquid green light filters down through cycad fronds; I feel the bars of warmth ripple across my back. Beyond my half-closed eyes, the orange glow and the scent and excitement of deepening dusk.
A noise across the water; I lift my head.
My heart throbs faster in the cavern of my ribs. The ground throbs too with the passing of feet. The sun dips lower, spreading its gold across the lake, silhouetting the shapes of my prey. I see their great curved backs; smell the damp rising from their tough, scaled skins. I feel a slight stab of fear at their great horns and shielded heads but my hunger eclipses my apprehension.
The colours in the sky bleed out to a cool blue. Mist rises from the water and ebbs at the shore. I leave the wet closeness of the cycads and feel the still-warm sand beneath my claws. The mist has washed out my vision: volcanic black sand, the rest an eerie blue. The scent of my prey rolls in over the lake and I revel in it. I am panting.
My blood is up.
I pad over the sand, my footprints like a dark trail behind me. The mist is my cover and there is no wind to carry my scent. I dart through the shallows between stark, blackened rocks. They stab the sky like teeth beyond the shore.
Then between the rocks, a sharp cacophony of sound: shrieks tearing through the misty stillness. A flock of birds rise and I desperately snatch at their small, feathered bodies until the sky fills with their torn paper shapes. My prey is spooked. I catch the white flash of their wide eyes. The surface of the lake boils with their stampeding feet as they make for the forest. I hear twigs cracking in the distance, the noises fading.
Birds sweep across the sky. Now there is only my shallow breathing. And the cold of the water as it runs down my skin. And the coldness of hunger. And the chill of the approaching night.
Text by
the winner of the Writing Contest I announced.Image size
2500x1683px 2.07 MB
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Comments32
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Amazing work! So beautiful! Like a dream!