The –––– saurus, by Mark Granier

I am the one whose bones they haven’t dug, part of an unseen clock keeping the Earth’s deep time, in silence, snug, folded into blankets of rock. I am the one whose booming roar was loud as a forest thick with rooks when the trees rouse them into a storm cloud...

Who? by Annie Fisher

Who has one foot, but no shoe; is all goo? Who shimmies down round your feet; shines like a sucked sweet? Who leaves a silvery signature trail; is a sort of a snail? Who lays five hundred eggs every year; is the visitor gardeners fear? Who will consume every...