The Others

the hills turn pink-orange
the hills shoulder a gossamer fog
magenta

the dog-thing stands near
green
the dog-thing's eyes are fire-like, crackling
the dog-thing's nose oyster-like

the stream rushes under the dwelling
the stream rushes deep black
breathless, clean

the dwelling casts a shadow
the shadow of the dwelling is a redder light

the red-shadow of the dwelling arcs over where you stand
the red-shadow is shaped like an anvil

the atmosphere is heavy
the atmosphere presses against your flesh
you feel the atmosphere's pressure

the weight of the atmosphere does not oppress
the weight of the atmosphere soothes
the weight of the atmosphere crowds against you
like a careful companion
massaging your being
with even constant heaviness

The Others inhabit your mind

The Others are dense, weighty beings

you feel The Others
breathing amongst your thoughts
plodding through the translations of your senses

The Others are heavy and within

The Others are comforting and welcome

you are glad you left your world
you are glad you came to the world of The Others

Stephenson Muret lives and writes on the Gulf of Mexico. He has more than two dozen publications in venues as various as Slow Trains, Bent Pin, Unlikely Stories, Alienskin and Ducts.

Find more by Stephenson Muret in the Author Index.

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