by H. Tsory
A fleeting shape at the corner of my eye and an earthy smell like ferns. I turn to see a liquidy movement of limbs pouring forth. The thing speaks as it walks on hands and then feet, words that are like packed dirt, a baritone filling my ears like mud.
“Ah child of the sun, come.. come. Tell me the width of your day, the depth of your night.”
The words are visible like a brown mist of hieroglyphs seeping from its mouth before dissolving, its breath smelling of curry, swamp gas, and burnt insects. It is Yogatron.