Sluggy

Joe sat in a forest, under the shade of immensely tall redwoods. A banana slug slowly slithered by his feet, which were stretched out in front of him.

“Slug,” said Joe, “do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

The slug kept on slithering, methodically, with purpose.

“I mean,” continued Joe, “why we, as beings, are here on this particular planet at this particular time. What’s it all mean?”

Joe scrunched his eyebrows together, and looked upward, towards the sky as if hoping to see the answer floating by in the sky. After a minute he leaned back, supported by his crooked arms. He stared at the branches of the trees above him, noticing how they seemed to meld together, making an infinite web of wood.

The slug inched its way onto a rotten stump of a long-gone tree.

“You know, slug, I wish I just knew that there was a purpose. I don’t need to know what it is, I just want to know if there is one.”

The slug wound its way up the stump, stopping occasionally, appearing to smell the large tumor-like fungus growing out of the decaying wood.

Joe picked up a twig, rolling between his fingers, pulling pieces of it apart and tossing them idly on the ground.

Joe’s kakhi pants were dirty at the cuffs where they brushed the ground. Glancing at his watch, Joe noticed that it was getting late, the sun was setting, the rays drifting down through the momentary breaks in the canopy, illuminating the stump and the slug and the fungus.

“These trees, for instance,” said Joe, still talking to the slug, who appeared to be bored with the conversation, “these tree’s have purpose!” Joe stood up, gesturing wildly with his hands at the tree. “These trees provide life for other creatures. They provide beauty, and grace and firewood!”

At this Joe slumped to the ground and began to weep, loudly, awkwardly.




The two men looked through the small glass window—clipboards in hand, jotting down notes—at the man in the padded cell.

“Yup,” said the bald one, “he’s gone off the deep end.”