This has nothing to do with movies. I just can't wrap my brain around why they don't have a 'dinosaur' category. You could say this is a fanfic of Jurrasic Park, but it isn't. It isn't even in the Jurrasic period. I just happen to love dinosaurs. A lot of words and not much definition. Good luck.

Hoards of them; all swarming everywhere. Moschops, that is. The end of the Permian period. These were the "cattle" of the Paleozoic era. They weren't the only kind, though; herds of Estemmenosuchus Uralensis and Estemmenosuchus Miriabilis were both prized for their unique skulls. Moschops was my first prehistoric reptile, but I favored my brother's farm of Uralensis over the former. One of the many in his herd took a liking to potatoes. I named him Solanum, for the first half of the scientific name for the potato; Solanum Tuberosum.

Now, fast forward to the very beginnings of the Mesozoic era, when the Permian period is slowly coming to an end, and you are where I am right now, working on my brother's latest farm of Efraasia dinosaurs, ranging from charcoal grey to dusty brown. Jack- my brother's friend of fifteen years- helped me dig a watering hole for the herbivores. A line of sweat glistened down his broad, tanned forehead, as he stretched in the mid-afternoon sun. His shirt rode up to reveal chiseled abs, sculpted from years of wrangling Eocursor, which was not an easy task. I remembered asking my brother when I was only seven, why Eocursor dinosaurs existed in the late Permian period, when the earliest fossil records were in the late Triassic period. He'd laughed a bit and told me I'd learn in school.
"Done yet?" Jack panted. His side of the hole was a total of three feet deep, five feet wide and four feet long. Mine was a mere one and a half feet deep, four feet long and two feet wide. "Seems you've been daydreaming again." He observed, as I dug my shovel deeper into the somewhat soft ground. I shrugged in response as he moved over to help me with my half.
"How long you two been out here?" A voice suddenly said from behind me.
"'Bout an hour." I answered, then turned around to face my father; only in his late twenties. "Where's Keith?"
My father jutted his thumb in the direction of our stucco-style house. Different kinds of prehistoric plant grew around it, shading it from the sun, and wild flowers bloomed in the sills of casement-style windows. The landscaping complimented the soft caramel/toffee colour of the house. I liked that the pasture our herd was kept in was in front and to the right of our home, which gave it a Jurassic Park kind of look. It was placed next to an overhanging cliff, with a sheer drop of almost ninety degrees, so that you could see all the layers of rock as water had eroded them. The right side of the house hugged the cliff, and the left gave view of a lush valley, where large Dicynodonts sometimes passed through. They weren't worth much where I lived, but in other places in Pangaea, they were worth as much as what my house cost.
I shook my head, realizing I was dreaming in broad daylight again and set down my shovel briefly to take a drink of water. I was interrupted by a, "The races are tomorrow."
My father shook his head dismissively. "Boys your age bet too much money on those things. You remember Isaac? He betted"-
"Two thousand and lost. I know, I know." Jack said stubbornly. It was something he did in his free time; watched and betted on the speediest dinosaurs, which were usually the smaller, lighter, bird-like animals. Jack's was a medium-sized Ornithomimus, whom he named Radheid, which meant 'speed' in Dutch. He'd gotten him in town from another friend in the racing business. I'd always wanted to go with Jack to the races. Not because I liked seeing peoples bet on dinosaurs that were all equally able to win, but because I liked being surrounded by the many brightly colored stucco buildings in the town of Sonbaie. It meant- in a twisted sort of way- 'many suns' in African. Or whatever language that was. I couldn't remember. History 101 was my least favourite class, though it was nice hearing about dinosaurs from the previous periods, like Dimetrodon, which was commonly hunted for the bright, big sail on its back.
"Neil!" Jack snapped me out of my thoughts. Again. "You done staring into space? Help me with this." He said as he threw me a bucket to fill with water. I trudged down to the well, lined with thick bricks all shades of grey and white and tan. I personally liked the well. It was peaceful; hidden by a wall of Pannaulika Triassica plants, sitting atop the moss-like Tortilicaulis. I leaned over the edge of the wall. Yep, still about thirty-four feet deep. I hooked the bucket to the rope and pulled on the other end, sending it down, then once I heard the familiar drowned "clunk", brought it back up, only to head back to the pasture, and then back to the well to repeat the process. This carried on until the pond was half-full and Jack took over. I flopped down in the grass and leaned against a Taxodium Distichum; a futuristic cypress, with sagging branches and leaves. This one was particularly large, but did no job of shading me from the sun. I moved to the porch and watched Jack and my dad bicker about if the fencing should be replaced. It was made of adobe at the moment. Please. As if that could hold in a herd of ornery Eocursor. I'd suggested to my father to change it to a sturdy brick with wood reinforcements, but he denied, saying it was too much money. That made me wonder; if his annual income came from "dinosaur-sitting" for at least seven hundred for a small one, how come he couldn't afford a wall that cost about six hundred? He was just uptight. "An impulsive saver", Keith always put it. Speaking of Keith;
"Bro!" I yelled into the windows that lined the entire front wall of the kitchen, facing north towards the pasture for his animals.
He replied with a sleepy, "Yeah?"
"Can you take me into town today?" I peered in and saw him lazily pouring a cup of hot coffee, and putting two pieces of bread in the toaster-oven.
"Sure," he nodded. "But only if you buy something for me."
I grunted, knowing that was the only way he would do anything for me. Lucky for me though, he only asked for slightly expensive things, knowing I wasn't working a job and didn't have much money.
"How much you get done?" he asked, sitting next to me on the clean porch swing, taking a loud sip of his coffee.
"We're filling it with water now," I answered, forgetting that the 'we' was actually just Jack doing most of the work for me, my poor fifteen-year-old self. "And dad's gonna plant some new trees along the edges."
"You ask him about the fence?"
I nodded. "He said he might consider it, but I think it'd go better with the trees he's going to plant."
"What kind?" he said through a mouthful of nearly-burnt toast with crunchy peanut butter.
"Cherry blossom. They're from the twenty-first century."
He swallowed. "That's odd. Since when is he able to afford a tree that later in the timeline over a simple brick wall?"
I shrugged. "You know how he is."
"Stubborn old man…" Keith muttered around his last bite of toast. He gulped his coffee down and set the mug on the swing, standing and stretching. "C'mon, I wanna buy a necklace for Jade."
"Sure," I answered, Jade being his current girlfriend of three months. He kept them for about that long and then got bored, the bastard. "Lemme get my shoes." I hurried inside, the kitchen to my right with its veria white granite countertops and aromatic cedar cabinets, the living room to my left; the carpet reminded me of wool. My mother had told me the colour was called 'Sound of Silence', which sounded like a pretty stupid name to me. The furniture was a mix of twenty-first century modern and Spanish. Thud.
"Thud?" I rubbed my head. "Oh…" in my daydreaming about cabinets and carpet and countertops, I'd run smack into Reaper by Vincent Van Gough. I straightened the painting and slipped on a pair of worn brown boots. So what if they were Gucci? You couldn't tell by how nasty they looked. When my mother bought them for me, she said they were the "alternative to biker boots", but to me they just looked like woman's ankle boots with a men's label slapped on the bottom. I stepped quickly across the carpeted floor to the front door, knowing I had probably taken more time than necessary.
"You're late." Keith scolded me with a flick to the ear as I crossed our very large, clean front lawn to the plaustrum. That's 'wagon' or 'cart' or, on occasion, 'Big Dipper' in Latin, which was what I called it. Big Dipper, that is. I climbed in the plaustrum and leaned against the back board, as my brother clambered up the steps to the driver's seat and started up Ol' Rusty. Ol' Rusty being the Iguanodon that had been passed down from my father to Keith, who was given the delightful job of pulling our heavy selves through the thick grass to the road that led east to Sonbaie. The path was large, but at a fourty-five degree angle, so any dinosaur pulling a load of at least six tons would have a hard time. Lucky for Ol' Rusty, he'd lived a life of less than two thousand pounds, but that didn't support his name. No one really used his real name- long forgotten by now-; instead we called him what we did because he was diagnosed with premature arthritis as a juvenile. I'd learned by now that human diseases and disorders could also be apparent in dinosaurs, thanks to one idiot- a Gary Busy, at that- who decided an "intimate physical relationship" with his Lesothosaurus was necessary. And look where we are now; dinosaurs with PTSD.

I'll try not to make it too boring as I go along, but the word-count will remain high, and dialogue will be minimal. Even though I hate reading stories exactly like this one. =__="