The Snail

For those that may find parts of this story offensive:  I assure you, no one is more offended by my writing than me.

The Snail

I

A young lady, two boys, and a Jack Russell terrier were hunched down at the bank of a stream.  Under the shade of the willow trees, they quietly stared at a frog half-buried in the mud.  The boys were both armed with nets and the young lady held a pail by the handle.  The dog was lying on its belly, primed and ready to pounce.  One of the little boy’s nets came swooshing down and the second boy was just as soon on top of it, probing the mud for the frog while the dog ran about yapping.  The boy got hold of the frog, removed it from the net, and tossed it into the pail with the other frogs.

“C’est bein,” said the young lady, “I think we have enough frogs.”

They made their way out from the shadows of the bank and walked across a summer meadow flanked by a vineyard in the countryside.   The Jack Russell followed close behind. 

“Are we seriously going to eat them, Cecelia?” asked one of the boys.

“Yes, we do this all the time in France.”

“But it’s going to be gross!” said the other boy.

“No, you will see, frogs taste good.”

“But they’re frogs!”

“So?”

“Our parents won’t let you cook frogs.”

“Your parents have instructed me to teach you about French culture.  You are lucky to have such a nice au pair.”  

“Maybe Toby likes to eat frogs,” the little boy said.

“No.  Toby is a dog.  Dogs are not allowed to eat cooked frogs,” said Cecelia.

They continued across the meadow and walked back home.  Remotely located in wine country, the lone house was painted white and was surround by trees and grass.  From the terrace of the house the town of Napa, about two miles away, could be seen basking in the afternoon sun.

That afternoon the boys watched television in the air-conditioned living room while Cecelia prepared the frogs in the kitchen.  After killing and cleaning the frogs, she cooked their legs with garlic and parsley.  Cecelia served the boys, and with reluctance, they bit in.  They loved the taste and were thankful.  When their father and mother returned home from dining out, the kids told them all about the frogs.

“I have saved you each one leg,” said Cecelia from the living room, “they are on the counter.”

The parents went to the kitchen and made chewing noises, pretending to be eating the frog legs when in reality the man and his wife were burying them in the trash can. 

“Thank you, Cecelia.  They were delicious,” said the husband.

“You’re welcome.  I’m glad you like it,” Cecelia said to her host parents. 

The transpiring day consummated with the sun sinking below the oceanic horizon.  Night came and the moon was glowing in the sky as Cecelia tucked the boys into their respective twin-beds in the same room.  They thanked her once again for the frogs.

 “Can we get more frogs tomorrow?” asked the older brother.

“Tomorrow is Sunday, you must go to church.”

“What about after church?  Please?”

“Ahh, but it will be too late,” said Cecelia.

“Please, can we still go?” said the smaller one. 

“Non.”

“I thought we we’re supposed to learn what it was like to be French.”

“Oui.   Perhaps tomorrow we will catch other animals to eat.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Snails.  Now go to bed.  Bonne nuit.”

“Snails…”  The brothers were astonished. 

Cecilia turned off the lights and left the boys in a state of imagination and excitement for tomorrow’s glorious snail hunt. 

II

The next day, the boys – both well-groomed and fancily dressed by Cecelia – got in the family SUV with their parents and drove off to church.  Cecelia stood on the terrace and watched the car drive away, she then went back inside and began to clean the house.  She washed the breakfast plates in the sink and gazed out the window to the hillside vineyards.  A small crop dusting plane swooped down over the vineyards and emitted a long, wispy cloud of pesticide.   Cecelia stopped washing the dishes and went around the house closing every open window.  The plane crossed back and forth over the hills, as though swinging from a string, blanketing the vineyards in pesticide.

            When the children and the parents returned home, the children walked past Cecilia without saying a word.  They were visibly angry with her.

“Qu'est-ce…?” said Cecelia. 

The kids walked to the end of the hall and turned around.

The older brother cried out, “Why didn’t you tell us that Saint Francis of Assisi loved animals?!”

“Who?” said Cecelia.

“Saint Francis, the Saint!  He loved Jesus and animals, and the animals loved him!”

“Stop yelling.  I know about Saint François, why are you so upset?”

“Because you made us kill frogs!”

Cecelia smiled and said, “Oh please, don’t be silly.  Jesus and Saint Francis won’t be upset if you kill animals for eating.”

“You’re wrong!”

“Jesus ate fish and lamb.”

“He didn’t eat frogs!”

Cecelia thought for a moment and then said, “So you don’t want to eat snails either?”

“No!” they yelled. 

The parents walked in at this point and the brothers stormed up the stairs.

“Don’t worry Cecelia,” said the mother, “they’ll get over it.”

Cecelia sat down at the table.

The father said, “They’re all wound up because today’s homily was about the importance of nature, and the priest went on and on about St. Francis and the animals.   So then they got upset about the frogs.”

“But they loved the frog legs,” said Cecelia.

“Yes, but that was before they knew about St. Francis, my dear.”  The mother left the kitchen and went upstairs.

“Give them some time,” the father said to Cecelia.

Cecelia felt somewhat hurt.  She asked, “You enjoyed the legs, did you not?”

“Oh yes, very much so,” said the father, “I love French legs.”

He went upstairs to rest and Cecelia resumed cleaning the kitchen.  She pulled the trash out from the cupboard and carried the trash bag outside.  She walked to the end of the driveway and then hand-picked the recyclable items out of the trash bag, placing them in the recycle bin.  As she picked through the trash, something caught her eye.  It was one of the cooked frog legs that her host parents had discarded.  She dug around some more and found the second frog leg.  Her face turned red, a bitter hostility brewed within her as she stared at the frog legs in her hand.  She chucked them back into the trash bag, put the bag in the bin, and embarked down the gravel road to walk-off her anger. 

Cecelia walked down the country road and thought about how she should treat the incident.  She very much wanted to take the dirty frog legs out of the trash and put them onto a plate in the kitchen for the parents to find, but she knew that this would be vindictive and that nothing fruitful would come from such an act.  On her walk, Cecelia stopped now and then to watch the birds and to pick and eat blackberries that grew in the bushes along the roadside. She soon formulated a plan which she intended to carry out that night.

III

            Cecelia spent the rest of the afternoon alone in the shade of an oak tree on the meadow.  She read books and wrote letters to her family and friends who were in France.  At dusk she went back home and prepared dinner for the children.  When they came down to eat, the two brothers were still upset with Cecelia.  They sat at the table and looked at the food on their plates. 

“Don’t worry,” said Cecelia “there is no frog.  It’s tomato pasta.”

The boys spoke little during dinner and Cecelia didn’t bother trying to get them to talk, although she was quite certain that they wanted her to present an opening to discuss and revive the prospect of a snail hunt. 

The boys got ready for bed and the little one walked downstairs while Cecelia was cleaning.

“Are you at least going to tuck us in?” he asked.

“No, not tonight, I am going out.  You must ask your mommy to do so.

That night, as the boys prayed to God and Jesus and to Saint Francis of Assisi, Cecelia slipped out of the house with her pail.  She roamed the property, starting on the driveway, gathering snails one by one.  Droves of snails inched across the moonlit soil and over the grass in a nocturnal pilgrimage.  She plucked some snails from off the oak tree in the meadow and found a few more on her way down to the neighboring vineyard.  She found one on a grapevine and held the snail against the light of the full moon – its clammy neck and elongated eyestalks shimmered in the night.

“Dieu est un comédien…” she said, and then she placed the snail in the bucket.

Cecelia admired the stars as she walked back to the house.  She stepped inside and all was quiet save the barking Jack Russell that greeted her. 

Cecelia said, “Shhhh,” and the dog went sniffing after the pail of snails that she carried into the kitchen. 

“These are not for you to eat,” she said to the dog.

Cecelia placed the pail on the counter and then transferred the snails – about twenty in all – into a wooden box.  She then chopped up a head of lettuce and scattered the pieces into the box.  The lettuce was there for the snails to eat and digest, thus facilitating the expunging of toxins from their bodies.  Cecelia closed the box and put it in the refrigerator.  She said goodnight to the Jack Russell and went to bed. 

In the middle of the night, Cecelia awoke to what she thought sounded like the little dog yelping downstairs.  In her slumber, she listened for a moment and heard nothing more.  She went back to sleep.

IV

            The sun crept over the mountains and the orange sunlight washed over the country like paint.  Cecelia lay in bed as the warm light cast through the window and kissed her face.  She opened her eyes, got out of bed, and changed out of her nightgown, putting on sweatpants and a sweater.  After going to the bathroom, Cecelia walked downstairs.  She heard some shuffling around in the kitchen, which was strange because she was the usually the first person up in the house each morning.  She stepped into the kitchen and screamed in horror.  A gigantic snail, the size of a person, hollered back.

“Jesus!” cried the snail, pulling his eyes out of a food cabinet. 

“Sacrebleu!” exclaimed Cecelia.

“Stop screaming!” yelled the snail.

“You cannot be!”

The snail said, “Oh I be, baby, I be.”

“But you are a snail, you’re talking!”

“Rub a dub dub, sweetheart” said the snail. 

The snail had made a mess of the kitchen.  The cupboards had been ransacked, the open refrigerator was trashed, leftover pasta and dry goods lay scattered over the countertops, and tracks of slime were covering the floor and cabinets. 

“Do you guys have any Vegemite?” the snail asked.

Someone was rushing down the stairs.

“Cecelia!” cried her host mom, rounding the corner, “Are you okay?”

The woman entered the kitchen and was shocked, “Oh my God!!”

“What’s wrong, lady?” said the snail, “You look like shit.”

The woman yelled for her husband, “Harry!  Harry, get down here!  And bring the camera, there’s a giant slug in the kitchen!!” 

“I’m a snail, dummy.”

The snail was rummaging through the cabinet with his tentacles, knocking over containers and jars, things were falling out onto the counter and floor.  Cecelia and her host mom were stunned.  They stood beside each other on one side of the kitchen, separated from the snail by a rectangular island.    

“Do you guys have any couscous?” the snail said. 

“This is impossible, this is like Kafka,” said Cecelia.

Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.  The woman held Cecelia’s arm as the snail slid to the corner of the kitchen, leaving a film of slime in his wake. 

 “You’re ruining my floor!” cried the woman.

The snail looked down at the floor, he then looked up at the woman.  “Oh shut up,” he said.

The woman’s jaws dropped.  Her husband entered the kitchen and stumbled back, “Holy shit!”

“Harry!” said his wife, surprised by her husband’s profanity. 

“How do you do, Mr. Turtlehead?” said the snail.

With his arm, the man swept his wife and Cecelia behind him and said, “Get back.”

“Did you bring the camera?” asked his wife.

The snail said, “I called you Mr. Turtlehead because you looked like you just about shat your pants when you saw me.”

“How did you get in here?” demanded Harry. 

“She carried me here in a bucket,” the snail motioned to Cecelia with his eyestalk.  He then opened a pantry and poked his eyes around in there. 

“No, he was not like this!” said Cecelia, “I found little snails last night, but this one was not so big!”

“I ate those other snails,” said the snail – one eye in the pantry, one eye on the conversation. 

“Get out of my house!” yelled Harry.

The snail’s was digging around the pantry and he cheered, “That’s what I’m talking about!”  He pulled out his tentacle and several bottles of wine came crashing down onto the floor.  The snail had wrapped his eyestalk around a bottle of wine and held it to his other eye as he read the label aloud, pacing his words: “’Bear and Lion.  Old Vine Zinfandel.’  That’s what I’m talking about!” he said again. 

The snail slid toward the kitchen island, he slid right over the broken glass and over the puddle of wine.  He placed the bottle on the marble island.

“Stay right there!” yelled Harry.

“Hey, do you guys have any Lambrusco?” asked the snail. 

More footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.  The children scampered into the kitchen and they froze upon seeing the snail.

“Look at the little Turtleheads,” the snail said.

“Wow!” exclaimed the older brother.

“What’s your name, fatty?” said the snail.

“It’s talking!” said the kid.   

“Damn straight, you little porker.  I can sing and dance too,” said the snail.

“Really?”

“No, dumdum.   Who do I look like, Jiminy Cricket?”

“Don’t get close it,” the father warned his kids.

The younger boy, who had remained silent as he took all this in, looked around the kitchen and began to whine.

“Here comes the waterworks,” said the snail.

The boy cried out, “He ate all our food!”

Cecelia knelt down and comforted the crying child.  As she did this, she looked around the kitchen and living room and asked, “Where’s Toby?”  No one heard the question above the boy’s cries.

“Cheer up, tubby,” said the snail, “you want your food back?”

They watched as the snail contracted his body.  A thick rod of translucent excrement began to emerge from the bottom lip of his shell and it pressed forth along the side of his body. 

“Here’s your food back,” said the snail.

The shit flowed brown and green and white across the kitchen floor, and the family recoiled in disgust.  In the center of the steaming turd, soaked in white ooze, was the dead Jack Russell terrier.

“Toby!” cried the older brother.

The younger boy was now wailing, he began to pee his pants.

“Oh, wow, he’s really going for it,” said the snail.

“You killed our dog!” yelled the man.

“He was a bad boy,” said the snail.

“Harry!” screamed his wife, “call the police!”

“Yeah Harry, call the police,” mocked the snail, “Call the police and tell them that there’s a giant talking snail in your kitchen, and that it ate your stupid dog.  Is your whole family retarded, Harry, or just your wife and kids?”

“Are you gonna let him talk about your family like that?” complained the woman to her husband.

“Yeah Harry, are you gonna let me talk about your family like that?”

The snail picked up the bottle of wine with his tentacle, he inserted the neck of the bottle under his spongy foot and somehow managed to pop the cork.

Harry tried to take control of the situation.  “Cecelia, take Tyler to the bathroom to get him cleaned up.  Patrick, bring me the phone.”

Cecelia took the little boy to the bathroom and the older brother ran off to get the phone.

“You know, I think you’re a coward Harry,” the snail said, “You’re obviously not the man of the house, or else you wouldn’t be taking orders from your wife like a bitch.”

“That’s enough out of you!” yelled the woman.

“I’m not talking to you,” replied the snail, “I’m talking to Mr. Turtlehead here.”

The woman seethed, “You are the most insolent, vulgar, and inappropriate creature I have ever seen!” 

The snail took a swig of wine and said, “There’re about eight and a half words in that last sentence that I didn’t understand.” 

The kid came running back with the phone and handed it to his father.

Harry held the phone out, threatening the snail, “You’ve come into our house uninvited, you’ve killed our dog, you’ve disrespected my family, you ate all our food and broke hundreds of dollars worth of wine, and you’re a snail! I gave you a chance to leave, now I’m calling the police.”  He started to dial.

“You can do it,” said his wife.

“Yeah, you can do it, Harry,” said the snail, “you can do it, Mr. Turtlehead.”

Harry called the police and was explaining the situation over the phone as the snail chugged the bottle of wine.  He had one eye on Harry and one eye on the closed door of the bathroom, which was about fifteen feet away.  The snail put the wine down and started across the kitchen floor, heading for the bathroom.

“Stay right there!” demanded Harry, still on the phone.

The snail kept going, sliding across the carpet, past the woman who was screaming unintelligibly.  He was about five feet away from the bathroom door when Harry jumped on him and grabbed his enormous shell and slippery neck.  The snail shook him off as he neared the door.  The bathroom door opened, and as Cecelia and the boy were about to step out, the snail barged in.  Cecelia screamed as the snail forced her and the boy back into the bathroom.  Once inside, the snail quickly closed the door and locked it behind him.

V

            The snail caught his breath beside the door.   The boy, wearing a towel around his hips, clung to Cecelia.  They stood speechless on one end of the bathroom, near the toilet and a window.  Harry was banging on the other side of the door, trying to force the knob.

“Open up this door!” yelled Harry.

“Who’s there?” asked the snail, he winked at Cecelia and the boy.

“Harry!”

“Harry who?”

“Harry, the man of this house!”

“Ohhh,” said the snail, “Mr. Harry Turtlehead.”

“The police are on their way!”

“That’s nice, Harry.”  The snail was looking at himself in the mirror.

“If you hurt them, I’m going to kill you!”

“I don’t want to hurt them, Harry, I really don’t, but that’s up to you.  You’re gonna have to work with me here okay?  The first thing I’m going to need to you do is stop banging on the door like a lunatic.  Can you do that for me, Harry?”

Harry stopped pounding on the door.  The snail had pulled back the mirror and was going through the medicine cabinet, inspecting the pill bottles.

“The next thing I’m going to need you to do is bring me a bottle of red wine – Merlot or Zinfandel if you have it.  Bring two actually, and place them by the door.  Let me know when that’s done.”

The woman could be heard yelling, “Do something, Harry!”

“Oh yeah,” said the snail, “If I have to hear your wife again, if she tries to talk to me, I’m going to rip your son’s arm off and beat this French bitch senseless with it.”

The snail winked again at Cecelia and the boy, but the boy started to cry nonetheless.   

“Okay, okay,” Harry said, “please don’t hurt them.  I’ll go get the wine, I’ll keep her quiet, just please don’t hurt them.”

“That’s good, Harry, you do that.  You do what I say and no one gets hurt.”

The snail turned and slid toward Cecelia and the cowering boy.  Cecelia trembled against the wall as the snail extended his eyestalk out within inches of her body, running the curving tentacle close to her breasts and staring into her face.  She could see her reflection in his giant eye.

Cecelia looked away and said, “What do you want?”

“Get in the tub,” said the snail.

“What?” said Cecelia.

“You and the kid get in the bathtub.  You move from that tub and we’re gonna have problems, got it?”  The snail pressed his wet tentacle against her.  Cecelia shuddered and then took the boy by his hand.  With their backs to the wall, they shuffled toward the tub and got in. 

“Now sit down,” said the snail.

They sat down.  The boy was whimpering. 

There was a knock at the bathroom door.  “It’s Harry.  I brought the wine, we only had one bottle left.  I’m leaving it here by the door.  What’s going on in there?”

“We’re having a little ménage à trois,” said the snail.

Cecelia gasped.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt them.”  Harry called out to his son, “Tyler, are you okay?”

“Daddy!” said Tyler. 

The snail interjected, “He’s fine Harry, he’s just a crybaby.  Now get away from the door.  I don’t want anyone hanging around next to the door.”

“Let me trade spots with my son, take me instead of him, please!”

“What? No,” said the snail.  “Who do you think you are, Atticus Finch?  Now get the hell away from the door.”

“Alright, I’m going to step away, remember what we agreed on.”

“You’re the man, Harry.”  The snail put one eye to the floor and looked under the door.  He opened the door and scooped up the bottle of wine.  Harry, his wife, and the older brother were standing together in the living room.  The police sirens could be heard coming up the road. 

“Listen,” the snail said, “We’re all gonna get through this just fine.  Harry, I don’t want the cops involved.  Tell them that it was a prank call.  Tell them that there is no giant snail in your house, that it was all a hoax that your boy played, and then send them on their way.  If I have to deal with the cops, then there’s gonna be hell to pay.”  The snail slammed the bathroom door and locked it.

VI

            Cecelia sat in the tub with the boy, who had buried his face into her arms and was crying gently.  The snail set the bottle of wine on the floor and approached them. 

“Hey, kid, be quiet,” said the snail.

The boy kept whimpering.

“Hey, kid,” said the snail, “Stop acting like a child you infidel.”

The police cars and sirens were getting closer to the house.  Cecelia was trying to hush and comfort Tyler. 

“He’s gonna blow our cover.  Make him stop crying.”

“I can’t,” said Cecelia.

The snail slid up against the tub and moved his eyes close to the boy’s face.

“Excuse me,” the snail tapped the boy on the back with his eyestalk.

“Go away,” said the boy.

“Hey, I got a joke,” said the snail, “what do you call a snail from outer space?”

The boy didn’t respond.

“It’s a joke, look at me.  What do you call a snail from outer space?”

The boy ignored him.

“Give up?”  The snail paused.  “A snail-lien.”

There was still no reaction from the boy.

“Get it?  From outer space?  A snail-lien.”  

The boy kept crying.  The police cars pulled up to the driveway, car doors could be heard opening and closing.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” asked the snail. 

“He’s hungry, and you’re scaring him,” said Cecelia. 

“Hungry?  Listen kid, once the police leave, we’ll eat all sorts of yummy stuff.  You just have to shut the fuck up right now.”

“You ate all our food!” yelled the boy.

The police were knocking on the front door.

“We’ll get more soon, I promise.  Just be quiet, okay fatty?”

“You’re a fatty!” yelled the boy.

“No, you’re fatty,” said the snail.

“No, you’re a fatty!”

The police were in the house.

“Listen, if you call me fatty again, I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap.  Now be quiet.”

The boy looked up at the snail and screamed, “Fatty! Fatty! Fatty!”

The snail scooped up the boy with one of his tentacles, wrapping it around the boy’s waist.  The boy was screaming and flailing as the snail carried him over to the sink. 

Outside the bathroom, the woman yelled, “He’s in there, he’s in there!” 

Inside the bathroom, Cecelia was yelling, “Stop it, stop it, he’s only a child!”

The snail held the screaming boy over the sink.  With his free eyestalk, he picked up a bar of soap and shoved it into the boy’s mouth.  The snail shouted out, “What did I tell you, Harry?!”  The boy was bawling as the bar of soap was thrust into this mouth, the soap being shaved up by his teeth.   The snail yelled, “I don’t like playing pattycake, Harry!”

The cops and Harry were now right outside the bathroom door. 

“Open up the door!” demanded an officer, banging on the door.

“Oh, fuck you!” yelled the snail, “Harry, get those clowns out of here or else your little boy gets it!”  The snail passed the boy to Cecelia and put his shell to the door.

There was some scuffling around outside the door and the police were arguing with Harry.  They soon backed off and through the door Harry cried, “Are you okay Tyler?  What did you do to him?!  Cecelia?  Are you okay?”

“Tell him you’re okay!” yelled the snail.

The boy was crying out for his father in Cecelia’s arms.  Cecelia called out, “He’s okay, we are not harmed!”

“Goddamnit, Harry,” the snail said, “Your shit is weak!”

“Is my boy okay?” said Harry.  “The police aren’t here anymore.”

“He’s fine.  Where the hell did the cops go?” asked the snail, breathing hard.

“They’re in the living room,” said Harry.

The snail shook his head, “You fucked this up, Turtlehead.  I told you to keep the cops out of this.”

“I know, but --”

“Now here are the new rules,” said the snail, “I only negotiate with you.  If I smell a pig by the door, then your son here is gonna end up like your dog.  Same things goes if I see any cops out back – make sure they’re not crawling around out back.  Also, we’re gonna make some demands.  Hold on.”

The snail turned toward Cecelia and the boy in the tub.  The faucet was running and between his muffled cries the boy was rinsing the soap out of his mouth with water. 

“Alright,” said the snail, “what do you guys want?”

“What?” asked Cecelia.

“We’re gonna make some demands here, what do you want?”

“We want to leave!” yelled Cecelia.

“Listen, don’t try to be a hero,” replied the snail.  “We’re gonna be here all day long, so tell me what you want, baby.”

Offended and dismayed, Cecelia shook her head at the snail and turned back to help Tyler.

“Come on,” urged the snail, “We’ve got the upper hand here, let’s make some fucking demands.”

Cecelia disregarded the snail.

“I know tubby here wants some Ding Dongs, how about you, Joan of Arc?”

 Cecelia didn’t say anything.  The snail picked up the bottle of wine and popped the cork with his foot as he had done before.  He took a swig from the bottle and watched with curiosity as Cecelia instructed the boy to gurgle and spit out the water in his mouth.  The snail then turned toward the door and called out, “Harry, come back in ten minutes.  And bring a pen and paper.  We’re gonna talk about what we want to demand.”

VII

The snail slid over to the tub with the bottle of wine.  He held the bottle out to the boy.

“Here kid, rinse your mouth out with this,” said the snail.

Cecelia said, “Ça alors!  No, he’s not allowed.”

“It’s okay, we can get more,” the snail said.

“No,” affirmed Cecelia, “he is too young.”

“Too young?  How old are you, kid?” the snail asked.

The boy wiped away his tears and look at the snail with resentment.

The snail took a guess, “Three?”

“I’m five!” yelled the boy.

“Heyyyy, I have son who’s five! Isn’t that funny?” said the snail. 

“Oh yeah, where is he?” asked the boy.

“I ate him.  That’s funny, huh?”

“You’re mean!” said the boy.

“Look kid, I’m sorry I washed your mouth out with soap.  It’s not so bad though, right?  It’s not like I gave you pink eye.”

“What’s pink eye?”

“Pink eye happens when you get shit in your eye,” said the snail. 

Cecelia exclaimed, “You are so rude!”

“I’m rude?  You were the one who was going to eat me.  Remember that? Hellooooo, anybody home?”  The snail rapped his eye on Cecelia’s head.

“Eww, don’t touch me!” exclaimed Cecelia.

“By the time this thing’s over you’re both gonna have Stockholm syndrome.”  The snail gulped down some more wine and said, “Boy, it’s getting hot in here.”

The morning sun was bearing down on the house and the heat was permeating through the window, the view of which was of the backyard, the neighboring vineyards, and the sunny hills.  The snail slid over to the window and moved the curtain aside.  He unlocked with window with his tentacle, pressed his eye against the glass, and pushed it open.  He then extended his eyestalk out like a periscope and looked around outside. 

“So far so good,” said the snail.

The snail pulled his eye back inside and then slid the curtain over the open window. 

“So, what’ll it be?” he asked, “Ice cream?  Popsicles?  Waffles? Or crepes, if you prefer?”  The snail looked to Cecelia, “Do you eat anything besides frogs and snails?”

“We want nothing from you,” said Cecelia.

“Oh come on, you gotta want something, sweetheart.  You want a book?  I know you like to read.”

“No,” insisted Cecelia. 

“Well then,” the snail looked to the boy, “what about you, big boy?  You want some Ding Dongs?”

Cecelia gave the boy a stern look.  He hesitated and then shook his head no.

The snail drank some more wine and stared at Cecelia and the boy.  For over a minute no words were exchanged.  Throughout this period of silence Cecelia and the boy would steal glances at the enormous snail.  The patterns on his damp skin would expand as he breathed, and the slow movements of his mucosal body and tentacles would make squishing and sucking noises. 

“Well,” said the snail, “suit yourself.” 

The snail called out for Harry who soon came to the door.

“Are you ready with the pen and paper, Mr. Turtleman?” asked the snail.

Harry sighed and said, “Yes.”

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna need…  Let’s start with breakfast.  I’m gonna want an order of waffles, some whipped cream, and a big tiramisu cake.  And also some Lambrusco.  Do you know what Lambrusco is?”

“Yes.”

“Great, bring me about four bottles of Lambrusco, alright?  We’re also gonna want some blue cheese, a few cans of sardines, a box of ginger snaps, , some chimichangas and snickerdoodles, and, let’s see…how about some Big League chewing gum?”

“Okay, got it.”         

 “Bitchin’,” said the snail, “That should be enough food for now.  But we’re gonna need some music, so bring us a radio and your music collection.   Oh, and get me a pack of Sherman’s cigarettes and a lighter.”

“Gotcha,” said Harry, “Anything else?”

“Yeah, two more things.  These last two things are very important.  I’m going to need you to get me a bulletproof vest, and a lot of cocaine.”  The snail paused for a moment and Harry didn’t say anything.  “Are you getting all this?” asked the snail.

“Yes, I’ve got it,” said Harry.

“Read those last two things back to me.”

“A bulletproof vest and a line of cocaine.”

“No, a lot of cocaine,” said the snail. 

“Oh, okay, a lot of cocaine.  Is that it?”

The snail looked to Cecelia and the boy.

“Almost,” said the snail, “Go ahead and throw in a box of liquor-filled chocolate bottles and some Ding Dongs.”  The snail winked at the boy and then said, “Also, bring some crayons and some paper so the kid can color, and bring a book for Princess Harry here to read.”

“Alright,” said Harry, “I’m gonna do what I can to get this stuff.”

“That’s my boy.”

“But one thing,” said Harry, “the police and I want to know what your intentions are.”

“Well, I intend to eat all that good stuff you’re gonna bring me.”

“Yeah, I know that, but afterwards, what do you intend to do?”

“Well, after you get me what I’ve asked for, I intend to leave.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“But what if they want to arrest you?”

“I’m a fucking snail, Harry.”

“Alright,” said Harry, “I understand.  But please, promise me something.”

“What?” asked the snail.

“That you won’t hurt my boy.”

The snail said, “I promise I won’t hurt your boy.”

“Or Cecelia,” said Harry.

“Or Cecelia,” said the snail. 

“You swear?”

The snail rolled his eyes at Cecelia and the boy, and he said, “I swear, I swear on their lives that I won’t hurt him.”

VIII

            The morning sun rose higher into the sky and the bathroom was heating up.  The snail was slumped down next to the window and he drank the last of the wine.  He was breathing heavily.

“I should have asked Mr. Turtlehead for a fan,” he said.  “This would be a horrible place to estivate.”

Beads of sweat had formed on Cecelia’s forehead.  She turned the faucet on and splashed some water onto her face.  Tyler splashed some water on his face, too.

“Hey,” said the snail, “that’s a good idea.”

The snail moved toward the sink.  He turned the faucet on and watched the stream of water flowing down the drain.  There was no way he would be able to fit his enormous head into the sink, so he turned the water off.  The snail slid over to the toilet and opened the lid.  He looked into the toilet bowl, slid backwards, and then tried to put his head in the toilet, but only a portion of his face got wet.

“Goddamnit,” said the snail, “My head’s too big.”

He looked over to Cecelia and the boy.

“Watch out,” said the snail, “I’m gonna try to wet my face in the tub.”

The snail slid over to the tub.  Cecilia and the boy scooted over to the far end.  The snail turned the faucet on and was able to fit most of his face into the stream of running water.

“Oh Mamma,” he said, “That’s the stuff.”  As he was splashing his face in the water he sang, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream!  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream!”

The water was filling the bottom of the tub and the boy said, “Hey, you’re getting us wet.”

The snail pulled back his dripping head and turned the water off.  He looked around, and with his tentacles, he grabbed a few towels off a towel rack.  He tossed the towels into the tub and they soaked up the water.

“Say,” the snail said, “Can you do me a favor?”

“What favor?” asked Cecelia.

“Can you put those wet towels over my shell?  I can’t reach back there.”

Cecelia and the boy looked at each other, they hesitated.

“Listen, I’m gonna get all dried up here.  I just need to be wet down.”

“This is not a trick?” asked Cecelia.

“No, it’s not a trick.”

Cecelia stood up in the tub.  The snail turned his shell toward her as she picked up the wet towels.  She began to drape them over the snail’s giant shell.

“That’s great,” said the snail, “Can you put one across my neck?”

Cecelia placed a towel across the snail’s neck and head.  The snail turned around.  Except for his eyestalks he was covered in towels.

“Look at me,” he said, “I’m a Muslim snail.”  He turned his head toward the window.  “Which way’s the sun?” he asked.  The snail closed his eyes and lowered his head and tentacles, pretending to pray.  He said, “Allahhhhhh, Allahhhhh, Allahhhhh.”

He lifted his head and looked outside, something was amiss.  There were officers in blue uniforms with binoculars walking around the neighboring vineyard.  The snail ducked and said, “Shit!”  He called out, “Harry!  Harry, we got a problem!” 

Harry came to the door.  “What?  What happened?” he asked.

“The fucking cops are patrolling around outside!”

“What?  I told them to stay out of the backyard.”

“Tell if I see them out there again then I’m going to light your house on fire.  You got that?  I’ll burn this whole fucking house down and salt the earth.  You think I’m afraid to die?  I’m a snail for Christ’s sake.  Go tell them that.”

“Jesus, I’ll let them know.”  Harry ran off.

The snail slid up next to the wall, keeping his body and tentacles out of view from the window.  Staying low, he tried to straighten out the towels over him, but most had slipped off his shell.  Hanging on the wall across from him was a framed copy of the Lord’s Prayer.  He read over it and shook his head.  The snail then slowly maneuvered one eyestalk up to the window and peeked out.   He saw that Harry was out back pleading with the police to leave the vineyard.  The snail slumped back down and sighed.

“You know,” said the snail, “I hate people.” 

The little boy looked up and said, “Why?”

“What?” asked the snail.

“Why do you hate people?” asked the boy.

“Because, they’ve killed hundreds of my snail family and friends.”

“How did they kill them?”

“They crushed them to death, with tires or by stepping on them with their shoes.  They killed them.”

“But doesn’t your shell protect you?”

“No, not always.”

 The boy scrutinized the snail’s shell.

“Were you born with your shell?”

“Yes.”

“And it grows when you grow?”

“That’s right,” said the snail.

“But what happens to it when you die?”

“Nothing, it just sticks around.”

“Can I touch it?”

Cecelia interjected, “Tyler –” she said admonishingly.

“No, it’s okay,” said the snail, “He can touch it.”  The snail slid over to the tub and turned his shell to the boy.  The boy passed his hand across the shell. 

“It’s really hard,” said the boy. 

“Calcium carbonate.”

“It’s swirly.”

“It’s sinistral,” said the snail.

“You’re a really big snail,” said the boy.

The snail looked at himself.

“Yeah, I guess I am a little fat,” he said.  He started to shake his body and his skin undulated like blubber.  Cecelia covered her eyes and the boy laughed. 

The boy said, “You’re jiggley” 

“Look at me!” said the snail, shaking his body, “I’m a big fatty!”

“You’re funny,” laughed the boy.

“Thanks, kid,” said the snail, “You’re alright.”

IV

The morning rolled along and the hot sun lingered overhead. The snail occasionally poked his eyes out of the window to confirm that the police weren’t out back.  Cecelia and Tyler sat dozing off in the tub.  There was a knock at the door.

“Hello?” said Harry. 

The snail said, “Mr. Turtlehead?”

Reluctantly, Harry said, “Yes.”

“Talk to me,” said the snail

“Well, I most of have the things you wanted.”

“Most?”

“We couldn’t find any cocaine, and the police said that even if we found some I wouldn’t be allowed to give it to you.”

“Fucking Crackers,” said the snail.

“They did loan us a bulletproof vest, though.”

Boxes and bags were being shuffled around outside the bathroom door. 

“I’m leaving all these things right here,” said Harry.

“Alright, do that and get away from the door.”

The snail turned to the tub.

“Hey kid, I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” said the boy.

“It’s easy.  I just want you to let me hold your hand while you go get the stuff outside.”

Cecelia said, “He cannot.”

“I’m not gonna hurt him, I just need him to get the stuff.”

“Do it yourself,” said Cecelia.

“I don’t trust the police.  Whatddya say, kid?  Will you take one for the team?  Team Turtlehead.”

The boy was staring down at the tub.

The snail said, “There’s a whole box of Ding Dongs with your name on it out there.”

The boy looked up and said, “You just want me to get the Ding Dongs?”   

“I want you to get all the stuff outside the door.  If I get the stuff, the bad men may hurt me.  You don’t want the bad men to hurt me, do you?”

The boy shook his head no.  He got out of the tub.

“Tyler!” Cecelia scolded him.

The boy glanced at Cecelia, he then walked toward the snail. 

“That’a boy,” said the snail, “Now, I’m gonna hold your hand while your bringing the stuff in here.  I’ll be right behind the door.”

The snail lowered his eyestalk and the boy grabbed a hold of it.  With his other eyestalk, the snail opened the door.  The food and other items had been placed in front of the door, and down the hall the family was standing with a few police officers.  Though they couldn’t see the body of the snail, the officers gasped upon seeing his eye and the slimy tentacle wrapped around the boy’s wrist.  Tyler made a few trips in and out of the bathroom, and soon all the items were inside.  The snail closed the door and looked down at the goods.  There were bags filled with cartons of hot food, cake and ice cream, bottles of wine, a bulletproof vest, a stereo, and much more. 

The snail said, “Big Money Harry, bringing home the bacon!”  He picked up a bottle of Lambrusco and exclaimed, “Holllahhhhh!”  He dug around and found the box of Ding Dongs.  The snail handed the Ding Dongs to the boy and said, “Good job, kid.”

“Wow, thank you,” said the boy.  He climbed back into the tub with the Ding Dongs. 

“You are not allowed to eat all those,” said Cecelia.

“He said I could have them,” said the boy, protecting his Ding Dongs. 

“Here you go, Frenchy,” the snail said, handing Cecelia a package of blue cheese.  “And look,” he said, “there’s a book here for you, too.  Let’s see what they got you.”  He read the cover, “’The Holy Bible.’ Jesus, you humans are all the same.  Here’s your stupid book.”  He tossed the Bible in the tub.  “Wooo, look, here’s the colors,” said the snail.  He picked up a box of crayons and a notebook, “These are for you, kid.”

The boy had his mouth filled with Dings Dongs and expressed thanks as the snail handed him the crayons and notebook.

The snail plugged in the stereo and perused the discs that were in a CD wallet.   He chose a CD and put it in the CD player which began to play the first song from the album ‘Breakfast in America,” by Supertramp.  The snail popped a bottle of Lambrusco with one tentacle and pulled out a whipped cream canister with the other.  He opened the cap of the canister and inhaled the nitrous oxide, wobbling and singing as he applied the whipped cream to some waffles.   The snail and the boy ate waffles, and Cecelia cut them each a piece of tiramisu.  The second song on the album had begun to play and the snail was singing enthusiastically.  He wrapped his tentacle around a toilet brush and held it to his mouth as though it were a microphone, singing:

“…But then they sent me away, to teach me how to be sensible, logical, ohhh responsible, practical.

And then they showed me a world, where I could be so dependable, oh clinical, oh intellectual, cynical.”

The snail was swaying from side to side dramatically, wiggling his tail as he danced.  He sang:

“…There are times when all the world’s asleep, the questions run too deep, for such a simple man.

Won’t you please, please tell me what we’ve learn, I know it sounds absurd, please tell me who I am…”

“Everybody now!” said the snail as he turned up the volume.  He held the toilet brush out to the boy who was bobbing his head. 

“…I said now, watch what you say, they’ll be calling you a radical, a liberal, ohh fanatical, criminal...”

The snail slid across the bathroom, shoving the to-go boxes and bags over on the floor, he slid right through the tiramisu cake.  He rocked his head back and forth, singing and pretending the toilet brush was a saxophone.  Cecelia was shouting something at him but he couldn’t hear her.  The snail turned down the music.

“What?” he asked.

“I have to use the toilet,” said Cecelia.

“Well, go ahead,” said the snail.  He turned the music back up a little.

Cecelia stood up and stepped out of the tub.  She walked over to the toilet.  The snail slid toward the door and he was watching Cecelia.  She stared him down.

“What?” asked the snail.

“Turn around,” she said.

“Why?”

“Don’t look.”

“Why not?”

“You are not allowed to watch me!”

“I’m a hermaphrodite.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“I bet you’d let that little dog watch.”

The boy was watching them go back and forth.

“Tyler,” said Cecelia, “turn around and close your eyes.”

Tyler turned around in the tub and closed his eyes.

“You too!” Cecelia demanded of the snail.

“Alright, alright, I don’t want to see your hairy bush anyway,” said the snail. 

The snail twisted his eyestalks around and closed his eyes.  Cecelia turned up the music and then started to pee.  The snail sang along with the chorus of the third track:

“…Goodbye stranger, it's been nice, hope you find your paradise.
Tried to see your point of view, hope your dreams will all come true…”

V

            By early afternoon the bathroom was trashed.  The floor was littered with take-out containers, plastic bags, wine bottles, whipped cream canisters, slime, and melted Ding Dongs.  The roomed smelled of cigarette smoke and dead fish.  In the tub, Cecelia sat reading the Bible and the boy was coloring in his notebook.  The snail flicked the cigarette he was smoking out the window, polished off his second bottle of Lambrusco, and then slid over to the boy. 

“What’cha coloring?” asked the snail, slurring slightly.

“This is Saint Francis,” said the boy, “And this is a big snail.”   

“Oh, I see.  Are they friends?”

“No,” said the boy.

“No?”  The snail blinked hard. 

“No.  Because the big snail hates people.” 

“Oh.  That’s not nice,” said the snail.

The snail was drunk and struggling to hold his eyestalks up straight.  He slipped backwards, toward the sink, and contracted his eyes into his head.  He was mumbling to himself, saying, “How much snail could a snail shell shell if a snail shell could shell snail?”  His eyes came out a little.  “Shell snail?” he asked himself, “Snail shell?  Snail shell sale?  She’ll sell snail shells.”  He paused and then said, “I’m a biological genius...”  He chuckled and exclaimed, “Diabolical!”  The snail rested his eyestalks over the sink as he laughed. 

Confused, the boy looked to Cecelia.  She shook her head and the boy returned to his coloring.   When he regained his composure, the snail slid back to the tub.

“What’cha reading?” the snail asked Cecelia.

“La Bible,” said Cecelia.

“Woooo, La Bible,” said the snail, “Fancy.”  He then asked, “Would you fancy reading it to me?”

Cecelia looked at him as he slid back toward the wall.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, “Be fancy.”

Cecelia started to read aloud, “’Do you indeed pronounce justice, O gods, do you judge mortals fairly?  No, you freely engage in crime, your hands dispense violence to the Earth.’”

“Amen!” said the snail, popping another bottle of Lambrusco.

Cecelia continued, “The wicked have been corrupt since birth, liars from the womb, they have gone astray.  Their poison is like the poison of a snake, like that of a serpent stopping its ears’”

The snail made hissing noises and waved his tentacles around in such a way that they mimicked snakes.

“’So as not to hear the voice of the charmer who casts such cunning spells.  O God, smash the teeth in their mouths, break the jaw teeth of these lions, Lord.’”

“Hallelujah!” praised the snail, shaking his eyestalks fervently above him. 

Cecelia went on, “’Make them vanish like water flowing away, trodden down, let them wither like grass.  Let them dissolve like a snail that oozes away, like an untimely birth that never sees the – ‘”

“What!?” exclaimed the snail, “Let me see that!”

The snail slid over and snatched the Bible out of Cecelia’s hands.  He put the book on the floor and after struggling to focus, he found and read the passage.  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.  The snail continued reading for a few minutes.

In the tub, the boy was resting on Cecelia’s lap.  She sang softly to him:

“Alouette, gentille aloutette,

Alouette, je te plumerai.”

She repeated the lullaby.  The snail watched with one eye as the boy fell asleep in Cecelia’s lap.  Cecelia then leaned back in the tub, placed a towel behind her head, and closed her eyes. 

The snail said, “You know, I’ve seen you guys before.”

With her eyes still shut, Cecelia said, “Yes?  Where?”

“Down by the creek, catching those frogs.”

“Oh?”

“You guys looked happy, it was like a children’s book painting.”

“Hmm,” said Cecelia.

The snail went back to reading the Bible.

“Hey, here’s a good one,” he said, “’Keep me safe from the traps set by evildoers, from the snares they have laid for me.  Let the wicked fall into their own nets, while I pass by in safety.’  He looked over the passage again and then said, “That’s a good one.”

The snail looked up to Cecelia, but she was already asleep.

VI

The sun crossed over the house and crept west.  The clouds were glowing orange and the glare of the sun reflected like fire in the windows of the houses on the hillsides.  Inside the bathroom, Cecelia woke up and the boy was asleep on her lap.  The stereo was buzzing and the snail was snoring.  He slept beside the sink and his eyes were contracted into his head.  He was far enough from the door that it would be possible for one to open it without it touching him. 

Cecelia woke the boy up gently.  He opened his eyes to find Cecelia with her finger over her lips, instructing him to remain silent.  The boy sat up and watched as Cecelia made walking motions with her fingers through the air and toward the door.  The boy nodded, acknowledging the plan to sneak out.

Cecelia stood up and slowly stepped out of the tub.  She looked over to the snail to confirm he was still asleep.  The boy stood up in the tub and Cecelia leaned down and picked him up.  Carrying the boy, she carefully stepped across the disheveled floor.  She was halfway to the door when there was a loud knock on the other side.  Cecelia froze and the snail was startled awake.

 “What?!  Who wants some!?” yelled the snail.  He looked at Cecelia and the boy and said, “What are you doing?”

Before she could answer, Harry said, “It’s me again.”

The snail said, “Get back in the tub.”

“Tyler has to use the toilet,” said Cecelia.

Harry called out, “What?”

“Shut up, Harry,” shouted the snail.  He lurched up and spoke to Cecelia, “You were taking him to the toilet?”

“Yes.”

The snail moved his bloodshot eyes closer to Cecelia and the boy.

“Do you have to wee wee?” he asked the boy.

Tyler shook his head no.

“No?  You don’t have to wee wee?” said the snail.  “Well, do you have to take a shit?”

The boy said, “No.” 

Cecelia pinched the boy and he said, “I mean, yes.”

“Well, go ahead then – shit,” said the snail, motioning toward the toilet with his eyestalk.  “You,” he said to Cecelia, “get back in the tub.”

Cecelia looked at the boy and said, “Go on, use the toilet.”  She stepped back into the tub as Tyler went over to the toilet and sat down. 

 “Mr. Snail,” said Harry, “there’s a news crew here from Channel Seven.  They want to know if they can interview you.”

“Who?” said the snail.

“The news station, Channel Seven.”

The snail was using his eyestalks to search through the trash on the floor, he located the last bottle of Lambrusco and popped the cork.  He then looked at the boy sitting on the toilet and said, “Well, did you shit?”

The boy shook his head no.

“Do you have to shit?”

Again, he shook his head no.

“Then get back in the tub.”

The boy got back in the tub.

“He didn’t have to shit,” the snail said to Cecelia.

Through the door Harry said, “I can’t hear you.  What did you say?”

“I said people full of shit, Harry,” the snail called out.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said.

“People,” said the snail, “are the shittiest creatures on the planet.  They produce more shit than any other species on Earth.  They are lying, stinking, breathing, pieces of shit.”

There was a moment of silence and then Harry said, “So you don’t want to do the interview?”

VII

            Few words were spoken in the bathroom at sundown.  A Fats Domino album was playing on the stereo.  The snail sulked by the window with the bottle of Lambrusco and a lit cigarette.  He watched the fiery dusk envelope the sky. Pink clouds floated over then golden hills and crepuscular insects began to stir.  The music faded out as the dusk gave way to an electric twilight, and one by one the stars began to shine.  The snail turned to Cecelia and the boy.

“You hear them?” said the snail.

“Hear what?” Cecelia asked. 

“Shhh…listen.”

They listened carefully, hearing nothing but the songs of frogs and crickets.

“The crickets?” said the boy.

“The crickets!” cheered the snail.

“Come here and look, both of you!”

Cecelia and the boy got out of the tub, they walked over to the snail and looked out of the window.  The enormous moon, shining bright yellow, was rising over the mountains.

The snail began to sing:

            “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!

When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine, that’s amore!”

The snail placed his tentacles around Cecelia’s and the boy’s shoulders, forcing them to sway with him, the wine was splashing as he sang:

            “When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet, you’re in love!

            When you walk in a dream, but you know you’re not dreaming, signore!”  

The boy was laughing and the snail turned to Cecelia.  He asked her, “Shall we kiss?”

“No!” she said, smiling.

“I may turn into a prince,” said the Snail.

The moon cleared the mountains and pushed higher – the glowing, white rock heaving up through the sky, the pale light illuminating the darkness.

The snail finished the bottle of Lambrusco and tossed the bottle into the tub where it shattered. He sifted through the trash on the floor and found the bulletproof vest.  He slid each of his eyestalks through the sleeves and tightened the vest around his giant neck. 

“Alright.  It’s showtime,” said the snail. 

He turned to Cecelia and said, “Are you ready to get out of here?”

“Yes.”
“Then this is the plan, you’re going to go out first, and then the kid and I will follow you.”

“But why?” asked Cecelia.  “Let me take him.”

“No, I’m taking him.”

“Will you let him go?” asked Cecelia.

“When we’re outside, I’ll let him go.”

Cecelia stepped toward the door while the snail and the boy stayed back.  The snail wrapped one of his eyestalks around the boy’s arms.  The boy was frightened and he began to cry.

“Don’t worry, kid.  Everything’s going to be okay,” said the snail.

Cecelia turned the doorknob.

“Hey,” the snail said.

“Yes?”  replied Cecelia, turning around. 

“Au revior.”

Cecelia smiled and said, “Goodbye.” 

She opened the door and stepped out.

VII

            From the bathroom, the snail watched Cecelia walk down the hall and toward the crowd of people gathered in the living room.  Harry was standing there alongside a dozen police officers and a small news crew.  They could see the snail speaking to the boy in the bathroom.

“Are you ready, kid?” asked the snail.

“Yes,” replied the boy.

“I’m sorry I have to do this to you, but it will all be over soon.” 

The snail unraveled his tentacle from around the boy’s arm.  He then reached into the tub and picked up the neck of the broken Lambrusco bottle.  The snail then wrapped his tentacle around the boy’s neck like a leash, pressing the sharp glass against his throat.

“Let’s go,” said the snail.

The snail forced the boy to walk in front of him as they left the bathroom.  They moved slowly down the hall, the snail keeping the boy close.  They entered the living room and people gasped in awe of the snail.  Flashing cameras were followed by reporters shouting questions and the police drawing their guns.

“Freeze!” said a policeman.

“Put the guns down!” demanded the snail.  “If anyone comes near me, the kid gets it!”

“Tyler!” cried the boy’s mom, who was clutching a jar of salt. 

“Get out of my way, evildoers!” yelled the snail.

The people in the living room watched as the snail, holding the boy hostage, turned and slid backwards toward the door.   Facing the crowd, the boy was crying as the snail jerked him along the foyer.  The snail pushed the front door open with his shell and pulled the boy outside into the dark, summer air. 

The snail and the boy passed under the yellow porch light and scrambled down a few steps onto the driveway.  The police stepped out of the house and some were shining flashlights onto the snail as he pulled the boy across the lawn.  The snail slid around the side of the house, moving surprisingly fast toward the backyard.  He threw down the broken glass bottleneck in the backyard and repositioned his grip on the boy, dragging him by his arm across the grass, toward the meadow and vineyard. 

The police rounded the corner of the house in pursuit of the snail and boy.  Flashlight beams were sweeping through the night.  The snail passed the oak tree on the meadow and reached the edge of the vineyard. He let go of the boy who fell to the ground in tears.  The police came hurtling across the meadow with their flashlights.

“Here they come,” said the snail.   “If I die, you can have my shell.”

The boy wiped away his tears and nodded at the snail. 

“See you around, kid,” said the snail, winking at the boy.

The snail turned and slid away into the vineyard.  Keeping his head and eyes low, he rushed along a row of grapevines and headed toward the stream.  He could hear the running water and croaking frogs, he could see the dark shadows of the trees cast beneath the seablue moonlight.  Following the trail of slime, the police chased the snail through the vineyard.  The snail moved fast over the soil, and the pounding footsteps of the hollering police were close behind.  If he could only make to the stream, he could lose them there.  The police lights flickered through the leaves and the men called out for the snail to stop.  The snail neared the bank of the glistening stream at the edge of vineyard and shots were fired.  The bullets ripped through his neck.  The vest was not bulletproof and the snail slowed down.  More shots rang out and bullets pierced the snail’s shell, tearing apart his internal organs.  He came to a full stop, groaning as he contracted his wounded and bleeding neck.  The snail’s head dropped to the soft earth and he turned one fantastic eye up toward the sky, gazing at the myriad stars that were so far away.

“How fucking beautiful,” said the snail before he died. 

VIII

            In the morning Tyler sat up in his bed and looked around his room.  His brother’s bed was empty and he could hear voices downstairs.  The boy walked downstairs and he heard his family and Cecelia talking.  Things appeared quite normal.  Cecelia was in the kitchen cooking breakfast, his mother and father were at the dining table reading the newspaper, and his brother was watching T.V in the living room.

“Boujour, Tyler,” said Cecelia.

“What happened?”

“Well, you would not wake up, so I let you sleep.”

“Where’s the snail?” he asked.

“We will catch snails later.  You must first go to church, remember?”

The boy realized it was all a dream.  He turned away from Cecelia and walked out of the kitchen.  The boy pushed the sliding glass door open and stepped outside onto the backyard terrace.  Contemplating the dream, he sat down on the steps and gazed upon the vineyards and hills under the bright, blue sky. 

The boy then looked down at a flower pot that was beside his feet, and something caught his eye.  A little snail was inching along the rim of the pot.  The boy leaned down to take a closer look.   As it moved, the snail had its eyestalks extended and it blinked one eye, as though it were winking at the boy.

THE END

Acknowledgment:

I’d like to thank myself, Aaron Alexander Dames, for writing this story.  I couldn’t have done it without me.