The monster stirs somewhere beneath the sand. Gritty grains roll over warty, jerky-dry skin with every guttural groan of restlessness. Of thirst. Of hunger. Of loneliness.

Many suns have passed since, each one rising to unleash wraith on the dunes. Burning rays stab down, a death stare fixing upon eternity.

Hot headed and cold hearted.

The monster simply crouches there, roasting alive in an oven of desert. It is a small thing, squat and stubby-legged, like a distant cousin of a toad. Its diet, however, scales far beyond bugs.

One thing certain of deserts is their harsh and unforgiving nature. So this creature adapted. It eats whatever it can get. Size is of minimal concern.

Its great jaw unhinges with the force of a spring-loaded mouse trap, enveloping prey easily. Like the great fly trap of Venus, acid eats away at unfortunate wanderers of its territory, swallowed whole.

The good news is, one such specimen is usually enough to fulfill the demands of its stomach for a good fortnight or so.

Yet many more suns have cycled than this length, and not a soul has come through.

Another broken, lilting caterwaul of a grunt courses through its beaten body. It would be better to perish than to barely hang on to these lifeless days of living. It would welcome death if it could.

Is it a monster or a weary spirit— tumbled like sea glass; too-far steeped in the tea of time.