Guest post: short story "Clever Girl" by Sam Jowett

"Orientation arranges itself every split second. It happens in an instant. It happens in a year." - Sam Jowett

Photograph by Ruvim Noga

Occasionally on “when hope writes” I’ll publish guest posts by brilliant artists and writers. If you want to be a guest blogger on my Substack, please connect with me on LinkedIn or my website.

Today I’m sharing an explosive, evocative short story titled “Clever Girl” by Sam Jowett, a lustrous writer, poet, and roller-skater. “Clever Girl” can also be read in HyphenPunk where it was originally published.

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Clever Girl

Multi-dimensional travel is just as expected: fucking horrifying.

I can remember the visuals the best, the last sensible one being Raymone beside me, their makeshift portal about to blaze to life. We’re in the midst of what can only be described as the bastard child of a bank vault and a 20^th century supercomputer–Raymone’s pet project. I’m hand in hand with them, and that brief schoolgirl rush of excitement is the only thing preventing me from completely unravelling, as Raymone’s other limbs are engaged in a blizzard of activity. And then they pull down one particular switch, a multipronged monstrosity the colour of a hornet. The action has an air of finality to it. Indeed, the transition begins moments later.

First is vision. The sensation of suddenly seeing the world through a dozen pairs of ultra-retro 3-D glasses. There’s an infinity of blues and reds, and then an infinity of every other colour; multiples of every object, multiples of Raymone—red and blue and orange and green Raymones—as their hand slips from mine.

And then I blink.

A mute gasp, noise stifled in the vacuum. Then there is the gravity riptide. The sensation of one’s body falling in fifty directions at once, across every possible vector. Orientation arranges itself every split second. It happens in an instant. It happens in a year.

In a second, in a week, across miles, across an inch, the transition happens.

And then we’re here.

Colours drip down the spectrum, all of them orienting at blue–rich, ripe lazuli blue. It’s the sky and it’s the ocean, both without features, no crease of a horizon to distinguish them, and for a moment my entire world is a blooming sapphire sphere.

I blink again. Details coalesce as though the landscape is rebooting. Dollops of cloud on the sky, and upon the ocean, splattering of dark shapes. Another blink. They’re ships, the blockade meant to protect the island, to ensure no one gains access until the maelstroms of international lawsuits finally settle.

I’m on a jagged rock, one that’s wedged painfully on my back. Looking below, I can see the Crater, within it the oil slick canvas that is meant to be the portal, the very thing that has just spat me out. A corona of armed guards linger around its edge, meant to stop anyone from illegally entering or exiting the island. Of course, their knowledge has yet to consider that I am travelling with Raymone, already a three-time fugitive.

If Raymone wants to get on the island, they sure as hell will.

Looking beyond that, there is Cretaceous, its emerald forests spread sprawled out below me. Further on, separated by a stripe of ocean so narrow it could be a river in of itself, are Triassic and Jurassic, the sister islands. All three of them forming the tripartite of the Mesozoic. Each one a slice of an era. They glimmer like verdant tiaras, jagged peaks of green.

I look beside me and there is Raymone. They are laughing; apparently repeated trips through the portal has reduced its effects to mere comedy.

“All good, Trynnity?” They ask.

Trynnity.

I nod, slowly, as mind lingers elsewhere. I certainly don’t feel like Trynn at the moment. The dull throb of my body is a reminder of what parts don’t belong, of parts yet to exist. I look at myself, a finger coming to my cheek. I rub and get the sandpaper grain of stubble, always relentless. There’s nausea lingering on the edge of my mind, and I’m not sure if it’s from the dysphoria or the fact we just warped halfway across the globe.

I look to Raymone. Even in the field, androgyny fits them like rings fit Saturn. I’m ashamed to feel a knot of jealousy run through me, one that I quickly swallow down. Raymone has brought me here, a zoologist with only two months of field work to speak for them, followed by five years of rust, doubt, self-loathing, depression—the whole transgender pre-show.

Me, of all people.

“You sure?” Raymone offers a hand, and I use it to bring myself to my feet.

I nod again as my eyes look again out to the ocean. The ships are more numerous than I could have imagined, a medley of state-owned and corporate vessels; everyone hoping to get a slice of the prehistoric pie after Crispin Deckard pulled the world’s best disappearing act.

“And there was likely an extra serving of gnawing vertigo, given I had to transmute us here,” they point their finger on the outcrop of rock we are on, which I now realize is the summit of Cretaceous’ highest peak. “Rather than there.” They point back to the crater, the guards surrounding it none the wiser.

“You think they have any clue?” I ask.

 “They don’t even know how to control the Crater. They think they can monitor trans-dimensional activity, but the whole fabric of space-time is, frankly, Swiss cheese at this point.” They scoff. “Either way, we’re here for the main attraction, no?”

“One could call it that.”

With a grin that rivals the sun above, Raymone begins the plunge down, descending at a speed that’s instantly unnerving.

All I can do is follow.

*

“Do you want to see the dinosaurs?” Three weeks ago, the question smacked off of Raymone Kim’s lips like strawberry syrup.

I was fresh off the buzz of my last performance—a bubble gum pop number from Neo-Madonna—still clad in raspberry punch wig, cyberpunk stilettos, bdsm-garage-sale corset. For their proposal, Raymone didn’t even bother to leave the club. Instead we sat in one of the VIP rooms, a small enclave that consisted solely of aquarium walls and mirrors. I could see myself, the me that Raymone hadn’t known yet, and self-consciousness bubbled forth.

A lot had happened in five years.

“Does it look like I’m qualified to research dinosaurs, Ray?” I said.

“You were the best in your field.” There was a drink in their hand, but more a prop than anything any outlet for Raymone’s theatrics to bleed through.

“For two months, and it was Paradise Birds I studied,” I said. “I didn’t even know dinosaurs were going to be back in vogue within the next year. Frankly, the only thing we have in common is I just happened to study on those islands first, before Crispin himself wrote me a lovely little postcard that said: ‘We appreciate your work. But get the fuck out.’ And I do believe they’ve now said the same to you, or whoever is in charge of that island these days.”

Raymone smirked. “It’s a legal battle royale at the moment, although it looks like Remora indeed may come out on top.”

“And are they the one suing you for Timeline Alternation, Past Manipulation, Treason against The Future and pretty much every rotten offense stuffed within the pages of The Future Interests Past Preservation Act?

“That would be the United Nations itself—”

“—How lovely—”

“—And you’re missing a couple under the amended Rome Statute—”

“—Of course. Which begs the question. How the hell are you here now?”

Raymone sipped their drink, before a shark-like grin emerged. “When you get a grip of space-time and that whole multidimensional cauldron created in that crater, then one can become a god damn ghost, darling.”

“And how can I possibly help?”

Raymone leaned forward, slowly pushing their glass to me, as if the next words they would utter were going to need a chaser. “What do you know about Corvaraptors?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Raymone nodded, expecting this. “Trynn, I need you.”

*

We’re three miles into the jungle when we first hear them.

Throughout the hike my ears have slowly adjusted to the frequency of the prehistoric. The soft ambience of nature tuned with snarls and shrieks and bellows of animals I’ve never imagined hearing. To both my disappointment and relief, we’ve seen nothing so far, the foliage is too thick.

But then Raymone stops, raising a finger to their ear.

There.

The Corvaraptors call is that of a woodwind augmented to the Mesozoic era, a flute trilling to the language of dromaeosaur. This is not what dinosaurs should sound like; every piece of media, every fictional and now ‘non-fictional’ account, and every single paleontologist except Raymone, and even these last two hours of walking through the jungle, have supported this.

What do you know about Corvaraptors?

Despite Raymone’s three-week crash course, I now realize—as the solo cry is now joined by a chorus, a dozen of these ‘flutes’ now harmonizing to the first one—that I am completely unprepared.

I had studied Paradise Birds for the grand sum of two months in the field, before Crispin Deckard bought this island, cut my career off at the head, and punted me off to commence his dinosaurae Magnum Opus. Who knew boredom from trust fund trillionaires could lead to such amusing results?

As a lovely ‘fuck you’ coda, my university also fired off the following broadside: “We’re sorry, but we don’t think the field can accommodate such needs at the moment.” They thought they were putting it delicately. In reality, it was an icepick to the throat, served alongside my own sudden realization of gender dissatisfaction. Funding denied. Connotation? Transitioning and research don’t go together. No more Paradise Birds for you, miss. Which means no stable income. Which means no way to afford hormones to transition—god bless privatization.

At least five-inch vinyl heels and an eye shadow palette were cheap. A band-aid solution that had kept me afloat for the last five years.

I bite down on my lip and bite the memory off, its goal of reminding me that I currently lack any sort of estrogen swirling through my body. Raymone glances back and offers another gesture—absolute silence from here on out. Their rifle has been unsheathed from its holster. I know it only has a single magazine, all that Raymone can afford. They’ve given me the quenching assurance that it would be good for taking down a single animal.

Apparently the Corvaraptor pack numbers around nine.

Our only other supplies are what we can bring on our backs. Raymone’s backpack is filled with the typical assemblage of jungle camping supplies, mine is decisively...not.

Their sounds are now a constant, fluttering endlessly in the background, yet they never melt into the rest of the jungle ambience. This is too distinct, too melodic.

We descend further. We’ve been off the trail for a good hour now, and now the phalanxes of trees start to wither ahead, making way for sunlight. It gleams down in perfect, auric rays from the canopy above, highlighting a clearing. Raymone moves laterally now. I follow, realization crawling over me, manifesting itself in both excitement yet fear.

They’re in that clearing. Just ahead.

Another cry from a Corvaraptor, it detonates in my ear. Now the flute-like sound is punctuated with a snarl. It makes the sound far less omnipotent, it forces me to picture the animals in my eyes. These are dinosaurs doing this.

There’s a tree up ahead, a small rope ladder hanging limp next to its trunk. Raymone’s observation deck. They gesture me to climb first and I do so, trying to keep my fingers steady. It’s up and up and up, and my usual apprehension of heights is completely overwhelmed by anticipation, the sheer thought of that viewpoint.

Finally, I reach the top. There’s a small platform here and I crawl myself on to it, shimmying my way to the opposite edge to look down to observe.

To see.

*

“How?”

It’s the only thing I could have said, the only thing that made sense, after Raymone had shown me the first video.

We were inside their apartment, a low-profile basement number. While they were on Interpol’s, Europol’s and pretty much every other ‘Pol’s most wanted list, each of those organizations still had the impression Raymone was halfway across the globe and at least three hundred years in the past.

Raymone settled to teach me on the floor of the living room, our forms sat lazily around a mess of photos and documents. I was grateful for the privacy, and Raymone’s eyes didn’t linger on me, they never judged, despite my form. I knew I didn’t pass at the moment.

They didn’t care.

And despite not being on stage, not in performance, the anxiety had gone. At least for the time being.

“How.”

“Put history on a thread and you’ll know that humans have existed for little more than past its frayed end.” Raymond’s fingers traced along the edge of their carpet, ending just inches from my own. “The Cretaceous period, in contrast, has had 79 million years to spin its magic. It’s the Mesozoic’s final act, part three of an epic, and heavens it has saved the best for last. The line-up, if I may put it mildly, is simply fucking blockbuster.”

“Dinosaurs live up to the hype. I presume?” I said, more than content to drink in their enthusiasm.

“Trynn, all of this media and we weren’t even close. Earth influenced these dinosaurs for 79 million years. This was its longest creative streak, unhindered. The results couldn’t have been anything but spectacular.”

*

The first thing I notice is the colour.

No Corvaraptor is similar. One is carmine brilliance, with spirals of vermillion flowing along their length. Another is a glittering white and blue mosaic. Another is pure violet, save for its eyes, which glimmer the same emerald as the jungle.

They are just over six feet tall—seven if you include their crests, a plume of feathers that encircles the back of their head—and showcase the ideal type of dromaeosaur features; sleek forms, tails nearly double the length of their bodies, and crescent sickle claws.

Then there are the tusk flutes.

They run underneath each of the Corvaraptor’s jaws. Like other animal tusks, they are hollow. Unlike other animal tusks, there is an opening at their tapered ends. It makes the tusks useless for the usual displays of grandstanding. Instead, they can do something more. Much more.

Below us, the raptors stand in a circle. Beside me, Raymone gives a sharp exhale of excitement. Their hand suddenly reaches for me, and—oh heavens—do I welcome it. The Corvaraptors below now bob their heads, crests fully flared like cockatoos. One by one, each of them extends their necks, arching their heads to the sky.

One by one, each of them sings.

From their tusks comes the same noise, that Mesozoic flute sound chiming throughout the clearing. Each one shimmies up to the same note, and then comes the melody. The first starts a rhythm, their head barely moving as the notes emitting from it slide down in a shivering arpeggio. As the others continue with their backing vocals, the first starts to bob and weave and craft their own music. Unlike the chirps of birds, this one flows and curves over the backing soundscape of their pack mates. It is unlike anything else in nature and yet, somehow, it fits perfectly here. There is no sense of uncanniness to unsheathe from my body, instead there is awe, there is wonder, there is the inescapable sensation that everything I thought I knew about this island was utterly and completely wrong.  

“I’ve heard this song before,” Raymone says. Their eyes are closed, recounting some old memory, making it ripe again. “This hasn’t happened before. I’ve only heard novel pieces—”

“—You’re sure?” I ask.

A nod. “They’ve done it. Every trill, every slur. Oh, look!”

One of the Corvaraptors has peeled off from the group—their sunset form slipping away like a saffron teardrop. Their companions pay them no mind, continuing with their song, heads still swaying to a melodic breeze.

The lone Corvaraptor shuffles forward to a small stream, dipping their head towards a small eddy portion of it, where the water is smooth and reflecting. They look like they’re about to drink, but their face pauses inches from the surface, leaving it undisturbed.

I watch, puzzled. “Have you seen this?”

Raymone shakes their head.

Below the Corvaraptor’s features start to ripple, as though an invisible presence was slipping their fingers through their hide. At once, their hide darkens to that of twilight. And then the spirals of their feathers start to shimmer, beginning to wink and glint until they are pearlescent.

The whole transition is near instantaneous. If I blinked I would have missed it.

“Oh my god—” Raymone breathes beside me.

The raptor is dipping even closer to the stream, and now I realize they’re checking their own reflection, head shifting between different angles, trying to appraise their new form. They pause and then rises upright, crest erupting into an exited plume of feathers as they start to bounce up and down. Realization blooms in me, a gasp inside my mind.

“How fast it shifted colours…how it can get that iridescent effect…” Raymone says.

“But you must have known they can camouflage,” I say, gesturing back to the other raptors. “I mean, those colours—”

Raymone clutches my arm. “But don’t you see? They’re not using it as camouflage. It’s not to hide, it’s to stand out. To be bold, to—”

“—self-express.”

For that, Raymone gives me a look of admiration that makes my body temperature rise by an easy ten degrees.

The Corvaraptor returns to the pack, but rather than staying within the confines of the circle they strut—I don’t use the word lightly, there is sass in their movement—crest flaring out as they bob their head, right into the centre of the circle.

The other raptors notice this, and then they go silent.

“Now this. This we’ve seen,” Raymone says.

Indeed, they’ve shown me the footage. If the singing is the matinee, then what is about to ensure is opening night, feature emblazoned on the marquee, every seat sold out.

The centre raptor begins to tap their sickle claw. Their position at the centre of the circle is no coincidence. A hard patch of stone is directly beneath them, and the sickle claw strikes it like a bullseye, a persistent click emitting.            

It’s setting the beat.

A low hum emits from the other raptors, one that softly crescendos, slowly ascending in volume, in pitch. Their heads are flawlessly synchronized as they rise together. Instinctively, my own hand reaches for my backpack, wanting to do an inventory of my own costumes right then and there. Wondering, now, if it was good enough. I was about to witness the competition.

And then the Corvaraptor begins to dance.

*

The plague of papers and documents had leaked into every room. Raymone was a flow of ideas, more fueled by enthusiasm than analytics. Anything and everything on dinosaurs spilling out of their mouth, an avalanche of facts that wore Raymone’s glee with each and every syllable uttered.

I could drink in that voice all day and night.

“Having recognized the gross misconduct of gene tampering done by Crispin Deckard, Remora industries offers to remedy these insidious practices, thus giving the animals the treatment they so wholeheartedly deserve…”

The document in my hand babbled on, appealing to the current international committee deciding on ownership rights of the late Deckard’s assets. Raymone had been right, the situation was a legal maelstrom, unlikely to be resolved for the next year or so.

“Is that not the most saccharine bullshit you’ve ever read?” Raymone said as they snuck up from behind.

“They didn’t gene tamper at all, did they?” The paper crinkled in my hand, I didn’t even realize I was crushing it.

Raymone shook their head. For a moment, I imagined it on my shoulder. “Deckard may be guilty of a lot of things. But he wasn’t going full mad scientist and mutating these suckers.”

“So why the claim from Remora then?”

“Cause, if accepted, then they get carte blanche with the dinosaurs. They could mutate them into any form they want and claim they’ve restored them, that that’s the original. And you know what? The international community is buying it. They’re fucking buying it. Because rather than believe that these Corvaraptors may have evolved into this—as a dromaeosaur that communicates via song rather than all claws and teeth—they’d rather stick to their assumptions. Fucking half of them still believed that therapods had scales, not feathers. When I was on the committee, I tried to sway the discourse, tried to gather evidence.”

“You went back to the Cretaceous. You actually did it.”

“You thought that was propaganda?” Raymone shook their head. “It’s all true, a 65 million year time jump through the Crater. Had to pay good money to get one of the five people who actually understand it to make sure I didn’t end up on Mars in 2312 for whatever reason—”

“—Did you also get said person to build that new contraption that now occupies your guest bedroom?”

They answered with a wink. “She has a name. Shira, a girl of many talents. And by hell, she did get me to the Cretaceous. And I did get the footage. But—”

“—But…”

“Remora knew. Somehow, they knew. As soon as I emerged from the crater, they were there. Confiscated my footage, moved to arrest me and, then, on instinct I did the only logical thing…” They shrugged. “I jumped back into the Crater.”

“And yet here you are. Didn’t want to just stay adrift in time?”

A smirk. “Oh, I did.”

“Not concerned about some elaborate paradox? Some absolute devastation of the timeline continuum?”

“Trynn, sweetie. The past wasn’t exactly kind to people like us. I’m not going to uphold it to some religious standard. I’ll carve out my own niche.”

Us. “And how did that go?”

“It went…but, I had to come back. There’s something I have to bring with me.” Raymone bit their lip. “I’m not just going to let these animals get trussed up to be future scientific experiments. They deserve better. I’ve arranged everything, I have an opening to the Crater. A straight shot. I can bring them straight to the Cretaceous. They only problem is…”

I gave a fatalistic laugh. “Getting the raptors themselves to cooperate.”

“Bingo.”

“Well. You’ve never been one to show up empty handed. You must have an idea.”

And for once in their life, it was Raymone looking away, their confidence briefly wavering off of their face. “Well…they’ll follow a pack Alpha.”

“And how does one become the pack Alpha, Ray?”

Raymone’s face split into equal halves of embarrassment and amusement. And, in the midst of those two extremities, I knew the answer.

“Oh no…”

*

Oh yes.

Trynnity struts and twirls and flashes. A pure seven-inch stiletto queergrenade of sass and misplaced confidence. The performance is like any other. Save for the venue.

In this emerald enclave of jungle I show Raymone the ropes—the climax to a three week crash course in Mesozoic drag. Three weeks in an attempt to get her fluent in the language of Corvaraptor.

Trynnity fits me like a vinyl glove. Corset flexes across body like trueskin. I didn’t have to do bejewelled fake lashes and eyeliner with a wingspan rivalling most pterodactyls, but if Raymone wants to stand a chance against the pack Alpha, then damn girl you have to sell it.

I ignore the tropical heat, how it pulses and swells. Its humidity slick and keen to conjure up every drop of sweat from my body, how it’s no doubt turning my foundations and concealers and contours upon my face into a slushy, molten wax museum of horrors. All of it a fair price to pay to let the dysphoria melt away. Even if it’s just for a few hours.

The plan is preposterous, but what isn’t preposterous in this tropical concoction? The only difference is that I could be mere days away from getting Raymone killed.

All of Raymone’s swagger. Those flawless winks and atomic smiles. All of those little ticks they used to convinced me to embark on this deviant adventure—and totally not also based on the fact that my heart does that double-dutch hop’n’skip every time their hand glosses over mine—all of that doesn’t outweigh the ever-gnawing sensation that…

Raymone might.

Just.

Not.

Have it.

*

Raymone’s chief opponent is that twilight Corva.

This sly, sickle-toed Queen would be tearing it up in most gay bars in any queer village, let alone the Mesozoic circuit.

This bitch has it.

Between slaying Hadrosaurs down along the river, Clever Girl, as Raymone and I quickly adopted the name, is keen to slay for the position of Alpha of the pack.

And there she is going to stay.

Some pompous crested Corva spotting a pure argent coat challenged darling Clever Girl just yesterday. Strode up with sickle claws tipping and tapping upon the bamboo-lined dance floor. Pure confectionery peacocking.

Clever Girl, in the space of a minute, spared no quarter. Her style was on point. That crest was the Mona Lisa, her twilight coat quickly adopted by all the others in the pack. She set trends. She wrote the rules. This jungle was her ballroom.

From the observation deck, I watch religiously. Learning her ticks. Learning everything from that staccato sickle claw, to the whip tail crack. How she never fully unfurls her crest until the climax. Always reserving a little extra dose of flair for the finale.

Each one more than a dance. Rather a story.

*

“Why Paradise Birds?”

Isn’t it obvious?

It’s the first thought that bubbles forth when Raymone asks the question. But my actual answer is more elliptical, if not a tad vapid. “They’re beautiful.”

“Everything’s beautiful in the jungle, Trynn.”

“In a different way. I mean. Not just aesthetically. But in their sincerity.” I pause, my fork wavering with mango salad as I parse out my thoughts. “You watch plenty of old documentaries and the footage is always played for laughs. The birds, dancing alongside a goofy soundtrack. But, honestly, I never found it funny…”

“It was kinda funny, though.”

I acquiesce with a shrug. “In a sense. But really, I couldn’t help but to admire. How carefree they were. Content to dance as though the rest of the world was absent. Just to be.”

“Just to get some sweet bird tail, if we’re being honest.”

That one does get me, and I laugh. And, even as the sunset reduces Raymone to mere silhouette, I can tell they’re smiling too.

And I know they understand.

*

To look at Trynn at the end of the day is to see absurdity.

Make-up boiling, eyeliner running rivers down cheeks. The jungle is not kind to such theatrics.

And still, the sponge hesitates. The make-up remover wavering. The briefest of pauses. Even in that swollen, distorted face. In the midst of that femme-caricature. Somewhere conjured amidst all that performance, that esoteric grain of authenticity.

Of trueself. One that I know, when all of this is wiped away, won’t be unearthed.

But rather vanished.

Raymone catches my reflection in the mirror as I do so. My face in that blurred liminal state. For a moment, almost like their own. Gender defiant.

How I wish I can stay.

*

Another flawless execution by Clever Girl. Her form changing now from Twilight to a glittering prismatic Opal. Her cult is quick to follow, their own feathers bristling to match. The defeated challenger limps away into the jungle, the large slash across their midsection not as devastating as the wound their ego no doubt sustained.

I wince, picturing the same gash across Raymone.

They’re beside me, and I know they’re frightened even if they don’t show it, eyes masked by the binoculars as they take in yet another episode of this Mesozoic drag race.

“She’s fucking good, Trynn.”

Trynn. The name still hits me like a shot of pure alcohol. It sends be abuzz, especially when it’s delivered with their caramel voice. But even then, the chaser comes. A rush of embarrassment. The stubble on my chin speaks for itself, ever present as soon as the make-up comes off. And the masculine treble of my voice, as I respond, doubles down. “You don’t have to say that. You know.”

“Say what?”

I avoid the actual word. Uttering it from my own mouth feels foreign now. As though belonging to another entity, something unreachable, beyond an opaque mirror. “It’s a stage name, Raymone.”

“For performance, is it?” Their eyes still pressed in the binoculars. In the distance, the rush of woodwinds.

“That’s right. Another accessory. Along with the fake lashes”

“Perhaps.” They shrug, finally removing the binoculars from their eyes, idly passing them to me. “But what of the Corvas then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen the newborns. The fresh hatchlings and juveniles. How they all come out mottled and brown. The dullest of shades. Compare that to the adults. Crests fully in bloom. Every colour imaginable.”

“It’s dinosaur drag, Raymone.” I press the binoculars to my own eyes, an excuse to avoid Raymone’s biting stare. Instead, I’m focusing on Clever Girl. She’s back at the stream, going through her chameleonic wardrobe to find the best shade of opalescent for the late afternoon.

“Drag suggests pure performance. I see authenticity instead. Self-expression. As I suggested earlier.”

“It’s merely for the position of Alpha.”

“If that was the case. They’d drop the façade the moment they were alone. Instead. There she is at the stream. Right now. Not doing it for anyone else. Just her. A ‘performance’ for one.” I can sense Raymone getting closer, their body shifting next to mine.

“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Raymone smells of sweat and jungle. And yet it is still undoubtedly them. I press the binoculars in deeper, my heart revving up back to double-dutch.

“I—”

“—When I saw you on that stage. I saw you. Just like how I see you every morning, when we’re practicing this little dance routine. When you’re teaching me how to survive these blasted heels, when you’re dictating choreography. Each of those, I can see your signature. And even when that’s all swept away, as you allege. That image still lingers in my eyes. It glows with your warmth. Your presence.” A finger, on my chin. “You.”

Slowly, the binoculars are removed from my eyes. And there’s Raymone, filling my vision. All of them. Omnipotent and perfect.

They’ve seen right through me.

And when my lips meet theirs, all l I can do is melt.

*

Raymone’s arms clutch around mine, in that protective little half-hug that I’ve seen them hint at before. Our sleeping bags fused with each other, our forms intertwined. And I can’t even imagine unravelling. We’ll remain in this knot. Detached from space, time, gender. Square peg bodies for round holes. For a moment, my mind wanders across all three of these planes, wondering if there is anywhere, any place where we could be welcomed, where we could settle. Where we could just be…us.

I can’t stop staring at the roof of the tent.

The envy is still there. But it has altered course. Raymone. They’re able to see me, dissect me in an instant. To articulate and phrase what has constantly eluded me for the last five years. My own form, flung wide open and vulnerable. And where there should be shame, that sense to simply burrow deeper, to hide behind the excuse of performance, to regulate myself to the stage, there is instead that glowing warmth that I’ve only ever felt with them. As comfortable as Spring at its best. A perfect cloudless sky, the flowers in full blossom, that simple flirt of a breeze.

Not just for Raymone. But for myself.           

And my mind goes through the events of tomorrow. Of them facing off against Clever Girl. Raymone’s compassion shining through. Knowing what’s best. Taking all that I’ve given them over the last month. And that, while I want to believe that their passion will be enough. That it will vault them to victory…I—

I bury my face into Raymone’s form. My eyes closing at last.

Me. Trynn. How I have loved the name since it first rolled off my tongue. How it rolls off of Raymone’s tongue. How they say it with such sincerity. How everyone roars it whenever I am on stage.

Not a performance.

I know what I have to do.

*

These stilettos can kill.

Razor knife thrust through throat. I threatened some handsy dude at a club once with the same maneuver. They are the final accessory applied in my wardrobe. All of this accomplished before sunrise. Eye shadow bright and annexing the entire top of my face, more of a mask than anything else, a swirl of sunset-softserve. Cherry red wig of short hair. Hairsprayed up into a crest of its own. A bodysuit that is an ocean of sequins, nail talons gripped upon hips.

In a normal club, this would be absurd. In the jungle. Here. Now. It is pure hilarity.

And yet, now, here, I have never felt more self-assured.

Raymone catches me. The moment their eyes meet mine, they know. Of course they do, and in the space of a moment, our body language dictates an entire conversation. Them telling me that I don’t have to take this risk. That these are raptors at the end of the day. That I could very well die. And me saying I know and I know and I know. But that, even then, it has to be me. That they’ve done more than enough. And that, at the end of all this, when the raptors are back in their proper Mesozoic time slot, how I yearn to dive back into the Crater with them, hand in hand, fugitives together. How any other possible future, past or present simply seems so bitter, so ashen, in comparison. And even if any other time and place doesn’t accept me, I know they will.

All of those thoughts, reflected in a look.

Clever Girl is waiting in the clearing.

She had picked up my scent far earlier. A puff of Corva on each side of my neck. Instantly, she knows what’s up, her crest erupting upwards in opalescent glory. Her entourage surrounds her, sickle claws tapping in excitement. This isn’t merely a competition for them, it’s entertainment.

How much bigger they look from ground level. With that crest flared, Clever Girl simply towers. For each and every ripe note from her tusk flute, there is a tapered snarl quick to follow. Self-assured, confident to fault. They simply could be. There was no keen eye to judge them here.

From the speakers embedded in my costume—no, my outfit—the whisper of hi-hats and a ripple of synths emerge. Tusk flutes of my own. The sudden tilt of Clever Girl’s head indicates surprise.

Sorry, hun. 79 million years and you still missed the goddamn 80s.

Already there’s a convert. A turquoise-speckled Corva on the far end of the pack, their own sickle claw beginning to tap along.

That’s enough.

There’s no inhibition here. None of modern day Earth and its norms, all hanging like phantom dead weights. Its customs, its traditions. Gone.

How they exhaust me.

Maybe there is a time. A place. For me. For us.

Maybe, it’s here. Now. On this verdant shard of an island, untethered from everything else. In front of goddamn raptors, of all things. And with three sickle claws now tapping, I know it’s possible.

There’s only one thing left to do. One thing that’s always been universal. A constant within me.

And that is to dance.

Sam Jowett is a non-binary writer living in Toronto. They adore roller-skating, disco, writing and sometimes all three at the same time—safety be damned. You can find their work at Bone & Ink Press, Nightingale & Sparrow, Hyphen-Punk Magazine and within the wood-wind choruses of corvaraptors.

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