a loud humab
2025, october 12
inside my book tales of a loud humab
a humab is the sort of creature you’d only meet if you accidentally tripped into the gap between a yawn and a sneeze. it’s shaped vaguely like a beanbag that housed a ton of sugar, with stubby arms like folded origami and a mouth that seems to run all the way around its head, like an unzipped jacket.
a loud humab doesn’t just speak—it broadcasts. its voice comes in foghorn-waves, like a brass band warming up in a cave, shaking loose dust from rafters and making teacups quiver in their cupboards. strangely, the humab isn’t aware of how loud it is. to itself, its voice sounds like the faint buzzing of a friendly bumblebee. to everyone else, it’s more like a marching band of friendly bumblebees—through a megaphone.
the humab’s noise isn’t only sound. its words ripple the air into wobbly patterns, so wallpaper peels, puddles ripple, and nearby pigeons lose their train of thought mid-coo. yet people forgive the humab instantly, because its booming laugh feels like standing in front of a bakery oven: overwhelming, yes, but warm and promising some kind of mischief-flavored bread.