Dinosaur, dinosaur, dinosaur, dinosaur. This was the song the schoolchildren sang to try and bring the bones in the museum back to life. The big T-Rex skeleton was gorgeous and captivated them, but the cooler thing was to imagine what the skeleton had been like when there were tendons connecting the bones, not metal rods, and muscles around the bones, not air, and skin and brains and guts and and feathers all wrapped up together into one huge predator.
Dinosaur, dinosaur, dinosaur, dinosaur. They held hands and chanted. They screamed the words and used their imaginations. The teeth – each as big as a banana – were in huge gums. The mouth was singing cooing sounds like a bird. And the eyes were in the bone sockets, intelligent, ravenous, focused.
Dinosaur, dinosaur, dinosaur, dinosaur. They sang and they imagined and they sang and they imagined. And maybe because their teacher was a witch, or maybe because their imaginations were so good, or maybe because they were the first group of schoolchildren that knew to think of feathers when imagining the beast alive, whatever the reason, as they sang the metal holding the frame corroded, and sinews grew back where they hadn’t been in 90 million years, and all the things they had seen in their minds eye was now in their regular eyes, and at the end of the chant the dinosaur stood complete before them.
The children ran. The dinosaur ran faster.