Slug Heaven

Slug Heaven

a degenerative attempt at literature by the one & only Mr. Sent-Mental

This here is Little Slug. He is a slug. Next to him is Papa Slug, who is also a slug. Mama Slug, whose arm you can see sticking out on the left. She is a slug, too. I’m afraid the picture is a little blurred, as my memory isn’t what it used to be. But it should do for the story I’m about to tell you. I should warn you: It has a moral. But it’s not the obvious one. It’s the other one.

Little Slug is rather non-descript, really – a greenish-greyish colourless blob. However, there were no mirrors in the vicinity, and he never had much time for self-scrutiny. He had to spend all his time chewing on green (or brown – it didn’t really matter) vegetation and leaving slimy mazes on the plant stems. It was a full time job.

There was only one worry in his life.

It wasn’t a great worry, because he was only two centimetres long, but it worried him nonetheless.

Every day his parents would tell him to be a good slug, that’s if he wanted to go to heaven. They spoke vaguely of great amounts of fresh leaves to chew and vast untouched plant stems to draw their slimy trails across. They spoke of hell too, a place that had something to do with large amounts of salt and excruciating pain.

It wasn’t too hard to choose which one he’d like to be in.

The problem was, though, did slugs have souls? “Do slugs have souls?” he asked his parents. If they didn’t have souls, then there would be no afterlife for them.

“Of course we do, how else can we be thinking and understanding creatures? Shut up and eat your leaf.” This is not exactly what they said, as their mouths were full of a tasty bean leaf; however, for the pleasure of the reader, I have made their words a bit clearer.

At which Little Slug would dutifully plunge his mouth into the nearest leaf. His head, however, buzzed with unruly thoughts. Was he a soulless slug? Sometimes at night, he would lie awake thinking about this, and the purpose of life, and he wondered why he was born, and why the sun rose every morning, among other things.

One day he woke to discover that Papa Slug and Mama Slug were gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Little Slug poked his eyes out cautiously, but he didn’t find any hint of them. They’d left no slimy trails, but had simply vaporised. Little Slug assumed that they’d left him and gone to Slug Heaven. They’d been good slugs, he knew, and he was certain they’d been taken to Slug Heaven. Yes, he reassured himself.

Slug Heaven.

So, as things go, Little Slug grew up and became a Big Slug. On his wanderings he found a Mama Slug, and then he was a Papa Slug. They had a Little Slug together (yes, only one, they were modern slugs who knew all about over-population). Every day, they would tell their precious Little Slug about a place called Hell, where he would go if he were a bad Slug. It was a place of salt and a lot of pain. Then, if he was good, there was Heaven. There were vast amounts of leaves and uncrossed plains of plant stems.

It sounded good to the Little Slug. But, he wondered, do slugs have souls? If he had no soul, what happened to him after death? Did he simply, close his eyes, and all faded to black?

He would ask his parents, “Do slugs have souls?” It worried him.

And they would reply, “Shut up and eat your leaf.”

Who Left the Taps On?

Who Left the Taps On?

A very wet story by Mr. Senti-mental

From the depths of space, the ship popped into existence. It was sleek and silver, its edges streamlined. It was a ship to be envied, perhaps – just not right now. Right now it was being invaded. It floundered ungracefully for a moment in space, and then without a sound it vanished again.

As heroic as fighting in hyperspace may sound, in reality there’s not much heroic going on. This has to do with the fact (and it’s a fact, not a theory) that there is no real proof for hyperspace. People know that certain kinds of light will not be blocked by objects, but will go through them. This, they claim, is the proof of hyperspace. But they know that it might just as well be proof of something else (i.e. that the item the light went through was transparent).

All these facts/theories aside, hyperspace is accepted as fact, much as evolution is generally accepted, because it happens to be the most convenient explanation.

Inside the ship, shots were being fired from powerful weapons. They didn’t project projectiles through the air; instead, the weapon was aimed and, if correctly aimed, the bullet appeared in the desired place (in the enemy’s brain/heart/lungs/insert body part here).

These weapons were not working. Being in a place that was not real, but imagined, the weapons could only fire imaginary brain-blasters.

The water, however, was real enough. No one knew where it was coming from, but shrewdly guessed that it came from the bathroom. The water was seeping around the potted plants and soaking the pleasant beige carpet. There was no time to sort out the problem.

Everyone had resorted to the ancient arts of battle; fists battered, teeth bit; hair was yanked; unmentionable places were kicked. There was at times the disconcerting moment when your fist passed through the face of your opponent, while his knee connected with your midriff. This was soon forgotten in the heat of the battle.

It was impossible to tell who was winning. People flashed in and out of existence; the captain of the ship disappeared for an hour, only to be seen hanging from the golden chandelier, three stories up.

And in the meantime, the water was rising. It was up to the waists of the battling armies. They floundered and splashed, panting and punching. The captain managed to get down from his chandelier, and played a quick game of Marco Polo with his First Mate. Everybody joined in; it was very interesting. If you heard someone shouting “Polo!” on your left, you could bet your bottom kraalian he was actually on your right.

After an hour the battle continued.

It was at about this time that the gravity-inducer kicked out. Short-circuited, most likely. The air was now filled with a fine mist of water that was getting thicker every minute, and people floating around, looking for other people to beat up. Chaos ruled. (Her crown is pink. Her sceptre though, some say, is composed of stale bread and butter, and therefore is not pink).

Someone had the bright idea of getting out of hyperspace. This, as it so happened, finished their battle off immediately, as they hadn’t checked at what point they were leaving hyperspace. (The point was big and round and very hot.)

The resulting implosion cast twelve planets (three of them inhabited) into freezing cold and pitch blackness. The only creatures that benefited from this state of affairs were the curious zendas, who floated in space, consuming garbage and passengers who were thrown overboard. There seemed to be large amounts of water vapour floating through space. Someone, they squelched and slurped to one another, had left the taps on.