By Brett Randell
Oh, this sucks, said the slug, sucking its body along the forest floor. It pulled across the wet leaves and twigs, leaving a trail of slime as it thought about its husband-wife who was waiting, patiently, pregnant with their offspring at home.
It passed an ant, a stick, a seed, a frog. The vivid crack of thunder overhead frightened its soul as it did every time a storm would come. Crack. Crack. The slug gods tearing themselves to pieces above. The slug passed over a bright green leaf, recently deceased. The microscopic fibers tickled its underside. It paused to relish in the pleasant feeling, then moved onward, following its one-pointed intention back home.
Hmm, blackberry bits, moss, and dirt… But I can’t find my darn slime trail.
The rain fell harder, faster, and the slug’s head filled with visions—its damp and dark log home, the beautiful mush-face of its husband-wife, the translucent ball of eggs, all waiting in their pre-conscious form. Another thunder-crack came and doomsday scenarios took over:
thrushes with sharp, pointed beaks slurping up its egg-babies
salamanders and newts searching for an afternoon treat
toads with stern faces and bottomless bellies
beetles looking for nibbles beneath logs
The slug picked up its pace and after a few more meters, right when the scent of its slime trail came back, an enormous shape swooped it up.
A monstrous vibration came from the mouth of a giant two-legged creature. The slug was lifted higher and higher, up into the great gray-blueness above. Its body was painfully pressed from the sides, top and bottom—ooph!—all while it tried to understand this new world: tiny droplets, blurry structures in the distance, dull scents of a different altitude. Another hard squeeze came. The slug felt like it was going to burst when an unintelligible shriek came and its body flew.
The slug whistled through the air.
Oh no, now this will surely be my end. The air flattened its tentacles back. I will squash upon landing and never see my slug-babies or husband-wife again. What will they do without me? How will they learn the ways of the forest? What will I—
The incredible flight mixed with the dim, filtered sunlight overtook every sensation its four tentacles could perceive, cracking open a new vision of reality.
It saw:
Threads of time, boundless space, infinite trails of mucus leading from the dawn of mollusk creation.
It saw:
Streams of slime reaching out to the edge of existence then weaving back into the souls of all the sticky beings that ever were.
It saw:
Endless cycles of egg-babies and husband-wives moving from birth to life to death to birth—a luminescent chain of beings sliding along the cosmic forest floor.
The slug landed with a thud on a patch of wet moss, its gelatinous body morphing to absorb the impact.
It rolled and rolled and settled beneath a half-decayed log.
The slug was still.
It sat there, belly curled, stalked eyeballs tucked in. Then a cricket chirp. The soft patter of rain. Two ants marched over its body. A drop of cool water fell on its smooth head. The slug extended its eye-stalks back out.
The universe of blotches and forms returned, but with a new brilliance and glow. An old snail passed by, waving its tentacles hello. A metallic pill bug curled and unfurled. A gentle mist filled the air, full of the scents of berries and grass. Every root and leaf seemed to whisper in welcome.
So, the slug thought. This is life.
It stretched its body out.
My husband-wife will be fine without me. Its tentacles buzzed. They have their own dreams and desires, a thousand logs and leaves to explore. The slug turned to face a hanging fern. Its triangular offshoots, glistening wet, exploded out to reach for light in the rain. My egg-babies do not need me anymore. The forest pulsed and breathed. They will be born, grow, and live—pulled towards their life-journeys by some unimaginable force.
A frog hopped by, its sticky toes flipping a leaf as it passed. In a single sound, the frog spoke a poem in a language unknown to the slug.
But the slug understood.
Soon, the rain lightened. Glimmers of light popped. The slug’s belly lubricated and its torpedo form churned in a wave. And all around, a symphony of creatures rose in volume as the slug sucked forward, onward, into the wet and wonderful world.
Brett Randell is a writer and musician from Denver, CO. He has released 3 CDs, is a graduate of the Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop Book Project (2019-2021 Fellowship), and is working on his debut fiction novel. Brett’s poetry and short fiction has appeared in The Florida Review: Aquifer, Stain’d Magazine, South Broadway Ghost Society, Interkors, and the Blue Lake Review. See more at www.brettrandell.com/writing
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