Ray Bradbury was the first writer to blow my mind. He died today. This T-Rex description from Sound of Thunder, itself an incredible Sci-Fi story, has always stayed with me.
It came on great oiled, resilient, striding legs. It towered thirty feet
above half of the trees, a great evil god, folding its delicate watchmaker's
claws close to its oily reptilian chest. Each lower leg was a piston, a thousand
pounds of white bone, sunk in thick ropes of muscle, sheathed over in a gleam of
pebbled skin like the mail of a terrible warrior. Each thigh was a ton of meat,
ivory, and steel mesh. And from the great breathing cage of the upper body those
two delicate arms dangled out front, arms with hands which might pick up and
examine men like toys, while the snake neck coiled. And the head itself, a ton
of sculptured stone, lifted easily upon the sky. Its mouth gaped, exposing a
fence of teeth like daggers. Its eyes rolled, ostrich eggs, empty of all
expression save hunger. It closed its mouth in a death grin. It ran, its pelvic
bones crushing aside trees and bushes, its taloned feet clawing damp earth,
leaving prints six inches deep wherever it settled its weight. It ran with a gliding ballet step, far too poised and balanced for its ten
tons. It moved into a sunlit area warily, its beautifully reptilian hands
feeling the air.