We decided to go giant hunting. We packed the car with supplies: fruit snacks, gallon jugs of water, rope, and cucumber sandwiches.
When giant-seeking, it’s important to stay hydrated and well-fed.
The street signs seemed to light up just as we almost passed them, pointing us this direction and that, guiding our car like a dowsing rod to places known but unknown. Places where small towns hosted space men or oxen or dinosaurs as tall as buildings, with plastic frames and painted faces.
Some were obvious, the center of attention, while others almost faded into the scenery. Asleep and decaying, past their prime, now simply shells of a former life, a former time existing with beautiful clothes and fucked up gender norms. Safe from us in their plastic casings, Safe to us, unmovable and static.
As we stared up at their faces, molded in permanent smile, or maybe a grimace, plastered on until time or small men came to take it away, we crunched our cucumber sandwiches and picnicked with giants.
As the sun went down, we packed up the car and let the street signs take us home, back to a space comfortably untouched by the mystery of past giants.