Brontothere Reconstructed, Emiliano Troco
Spring slammed into the year like a hot avalanche of pollen, sunshine, and birdsong. Days stretched long, nuzzled against hours that had recently been night’s. Nests were built. Blossoms bloomed. The peaks on the horizon’s mountains went from white to green. And the boy brontotheres ached with a curious sizzle in their gut (and below) that drove them to knock heads, snort, and breed.