The graveyard was a source of embarrassment, and no amount of pleading to move it had helped. The solution was to pretend it didn’t exist.
Her greatest fear was that one of her grandchildren would wander into it and get hurt. So when young A.J. strode through the living room wearing one of his grandpa’s old military pith helmets, it raised concerns.
“Where’ya going boy?” She hoped levity would get a straight answer from the pre-schooler.
“I’m goin’ huntin’ for dinosaurs,” his response filled with disdain for such a silly question.
“There aren’t any dinosaurs around here,” she said pulling the boy into a bear hug.
“Are too,” A.J. struggled to break free, but allowed his gram to plant a wet kiss on his cheek.
“Where?” She laughed as the boy wiped at the red lipstick residue she left.
“Out in the graveyard.” She couldn’t help but smile at how he stood, feet apart, fists on his hips, nodding his head to emphasize each word.
“You know you’re not supposed to go out there, it’s dangerous.” Turning serious, she used her “no-nonsense” voice.
“But, that’s where the dinosaurs are.” A.J.’s pout reminded her of his father, a tactic he used on her when he was younger.
“I tell you what,” she got down on the floor so she was eye level with A.J. “We can go to the Natural History Museum this afternoon. You can see real dinosaurs there, how’s that?”
“Can I still wear my helmet?”
“Sure you can,” she assured him. “Go wash up and we’ll have lunch first.”
The boy whooped his approval and ran off to get ready.
She walked out to the garage to bring her husband in for lunch.
“Hey, old man,” she called. “This is the last time I’ll say anything about that dinosaur junkyard. Either you get rid of all those rusted out ol’ cars or I will. Now, come in and eat.”
Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, telling a story using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Dinosaur [noun \ˈdahy-nuh-sawr\] 3: one that is impractically large, out-of-date, or obsolete