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Erin and the Dinosaurs Jon Hansen It was Wednesday morning when Erin noticed the dinosaurs in her kitchen. She had carried her cornflakes bowl to the sink, only to see her boyfriend Karl's dishes from last night still stacked there. She reached for a spaghetti-encrusted plate, and that's when she saw the ants. Big black ants scurrying around the bottom of the sink, with more of them trailing up and across the counter to a largish crack in the wall beneath the kitchen window, a crack the landlord had not fixed in the eight months she had lived there. Erin did not freak out. Instead she started cursing. At the ants, at Karl, at her landlord, and at her mother, because they had fought all weekend about Karl and his general unsuitability as a boyfriend and human being. As her mother's nagging tones echoed in her head for the n th time, Erin picked up a dishtowel and swung it like a cloth hammer down on the ants. Carnage everywhere! Momentary satisfaction flared, only to be replaced by annoyance at the crumpled ant bodies. As Erin studied her work, she noticed that not all the tiny corpses were ants. Some were dinosaurs. They were very small dinosaurs |
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