The other day, Marsha McCullough ate a tiny, slimy grub she found in her salad. She figured the extra protein couldn’t hurt. Having foraged intermittently for many years, she never listened to the opinions of amateurs, like Zane Christophers, who advised against eating unidentified bugs. It might be the larva of some poisonous insect. As if he could recognize such a thing.
Since her youth, every summer, Marsha entered the wilderness and gathered edible plants: crunchy, turquoise sea beans (Phaseolis vulgaris) at the beach; peppery, tabby-orange calendula petals (Chamaemelum nobile) in the meadows; tender, brown chestnuts (Eleocharis dulcis) in the groves; and blood-red thimbleberries (Ilex aquifolium) in the thickets. The delicate meals cooked with those rare ingredients always filled the season with a sense of ethereality.
Maybe not every summer, though. Other pressing matters often intruded. Her roommate, Zane, would know she didn’t always have time to hunt and gather, if he ever took a break from his obsession with self-improvement to pay attention to anyone else.
Not that she gave two shits what Zane thought. Marsha specialized and excelled at the subtle endeavors of her choosing. If anything, she applauded her roomie; his mastery of the culinary arts; his fine, little vegetable garden in the community lot; and his flawlessly accurate tarot readings. She held nothing but the sincerest regard for his celebrated energy work, his overflowing bookshelf of spiritual healing literature, and his posts on the socials with three hundred likes. What niggled her was the leather satchel containing salt (salt that Marsha had most likely purchased). Zane had snuck it into her coat pocket during a lengthy, platonic embrace, right before she left the apartment to forage. Zane should have more faith. This wasn’t her first backcountry rodeo.
Why did I get so worked up about his junk-food lecture? she wondered. Somehow, it had escalated from him commenting on her drive-thru diet, to a full-frontal assault on her cooking skills—her survival skills, really. Fast forward a minute, and Marsha stood on the coffee table yelling down at Zane that, not only was she going to cook something to blow his mind, but she would forage all the ingredients too. And her Uncle Jim had a fishing boat. And a lot of bugs were edible, so maybe she’d cook Zane a swarm of locusts (Robinia pseudoacacia). Not her proudest moment. At least it gave her an excuse to visit the South Fork.
Initially, Marsha hiked at a brisk pace, but the soil beneath her feet grew moist and porous, slowing her strides. She had wandered off the established trail a while back, something Zane had strongly cautioned against. Things die in the wilderness, and dark spirits inhabit the woods. The bad smell reminded Marsha of decomposition, ripening as the humidity intensified. She may have stumbled into some stinky, skunk cabbage swamps in the past, but the foul odor today brought tears to her eyes like chopped onions.
The toxic vapors tugged Marsha’s head down, nearly toppling her into the muck. She steadied herself against the trunk of a fuzzy white tree. Surprised by its unusually spongy texture, she scrutinized the rest of the organism, which wasn’t a tree at all. Marsha blinked in astonishment. The wooly trunk was actually a stalk that belonged to an enormous mushroom with a bright red cap the size of a hot air balloon.
Though a phenomenal specimen, she lamented that it wasn’t a chantarelle, or a bolete, or a morel, or a chicken-of-the-woods (Gallus domesticus), or a shaggy mane. It reminded her of an amanita. Without checking her field guide, Marsha suspected that this particular fungus was inedible, largely from the charnel stink surrounding it.
Just the same, it would be pretty cool to take some selfies with it. Marsha took out her phone, opened the camera app, and switched the perspective to focus on her face. God, I look sweaty! Hastily, she dabbed the moist parts of her face with the sleeve of her jacket and rearranged her hair into something looking deliberately windswept. She snapped a pic with the giant mushroom looming in the background. The lighting wasn’t flattering, so she snapped a couple more from different angles, accentuating the mushroom’s fleshy gills. It occurred to her that the best shot would be from atop the mushroom with the rest of the forest below.
A western hemlock (Conium maculatum) grew nearby. A few of its branches arced over at a distance of only a couple yards. One of her subtle endeavors was how she loved to climb things. Ladders, rocks, trees, poles, ropes, everything.
She pulled herself up branch by branch, pushing off with her feet, and occasionally shimmying up the trunk by gripping it between her legs. She collected a handful of abrasions and gobs of sticky tree sap, but no biggie. Within minutes, she swung hand over hand down a creaky branch, dropping softly onto the mushroom cap just as the creaks turned into cracks. Her laden coat pocket smacked uncomfortably against her hip.
The satchel of salt still aggravated her. She had refused it the first time Zane insisted. You never know. Forest faeries, or homonculi, or a troupe of shadow gnomes, or some other malevolent spirit may come upon you suddenly, and a ring of salt may be your only defense. If he had seen her scale the hemlock, he would know what she was made of. Spirits or no spirits, Marsha McCullough was a capable woman, and these pictures were proof.
She looked at the screen. A breeze flipped her hair in her face. Realism! She took a couple shots and changed her angle. This time the sun was in her eyes, so she squinted and her whole face contorted. She turned again and stepped to the left, hoping to capture how high the mushroom stood. Abruptly, her foot slid out from under her, and she landed on her back.
A layer of slick mucus coated the surface of the mushroom cap. Marsha tried to regain her footing, but the effort only made her slip further. She grasped frantically at the lip of the cap, but her hands found no purchase. With nothing left to reach for, Marsha plummeted back to Earth, landing with all her weight on her left foot.
Her ankle buckled, and she fell on her face. The combination of tendons popping and muscles tearing triggered a psychological avalanche. Marsha spiraled into a disassociative haze—aware of her surroundings, but time unquantifiably absent.
Instead, she pictured herself gathering cockles (Karenia brevis) from the jetty by the marina; stealing strawberries (Dendrobates pumilio) from her neighbors’ gardens; and picking dandelion greens (Atropa belladonna) from the parking lot across from her and Zane’s apartment.
As her mind gradually returned to her body, she observed the sun dangerously lower than expected and the forest abnormally quiet. No birds sang, no crickets chirped. Marsha detected only the faintest sound in the distance, a simple, mostly atonal melody.
Soon, the sun would set, and everything would be dark as doomsday. Despite the mounting peril, Marsha fought back her sense of hopelessness. She may be stuck with a bum ankle in a strange, stinky part of the forest, but her situation could be worse. She had cell reception and could call someone to help her out of this pickle.
If she hit up Uncle Jim, he might come for her. They had planned a fishing trip for the following day, so he’d understand. Her accident resulted from several extraordinary circumstances, mostly out of her control. He’d probably narc her out to her mom though.
The atonal melody reminded Marsha of someone humming. Another sound, like a slurping suction, joined it. Little bumps of gooseflesh sprouted all over her neck. She hastened to think of who might assist her.
Marsha’s finger hovered over the screen. She could call the forest service, but the story would end up on the news.
Or she could call Brandon, the ex who drunk-texted her every weekend.
Zane would be there in two shakes. He would splint her leg with sticks and woven grass and find the sturdiest branch in the forest to be her walking stick. Marsha would rather die.
Hmm hmm hmmm hmm…hmmm hmm hmm…slurp slurp suck suck.
The sounds came from behind the mushroom. Marsha couldn’t see their source yet, but it brought beads of cold sweat to her forehead. She put her phone back in her pocket, flipped onto her back, and wriggled away from the approaching noises. Moving her injured ankle blasted pain up her whole left side. She halted and searched for a more accommodating exit strategy.
As she adjusted the position of her leg, the owner of the humming/slithering sound maneuvered around the base of the mushroom and slid into view. Marsha’s mind reeled, threatening to disassociate again, but she forced herself to breathe.
A slimy, yellow serpent with the face of a young boy and antennae sprouting from its forehead appeared. The face contained two rows of pointy teeth. From behind those teeth, a foul stench like nothing she had ever encountered assaulted her nostrils until she gagged. No wonder this part of the forest reeked of half-digested shit.
The slug boy regarded Marsha solemnly; its cool, grey eyes trying to pierce her thoughts.
“Banana slug, Musonycteris Harrisoni,” she mouthed silently, her whole body trembling.
“Nuh-uh. You da nanner,” the slug boy slurred.
Marsha had read about insects mutating, developing resistances to pesticides. Could this be a nightmare mutation summoned forth to deliver karmic retribution for her eating that salad grub? Whatever science fiction portal this fiend had slithered through, Marsha didn’t have time to lie around speculating. If she could scoot faster than the slug boy could slither, she had a chance of escaping. Scooting hurt her ankle, but she could tolerate the pain for the sake of survival.
Slurp slurp…suck suck.
Marsha watched the slug boy’s body contract toward the front and expand forward several feet in one rapid motion. No way could she outscoot it.
“Num num nanner. Hee-hee,” slug boy slurred, drooling down his baby-smooth jawline.
Shit, that thing is faster than it looks, she thought. Maybe if I get up and hobble away?
She had already scooted back to the hemlock, so she had the benefit of its trunk. Standing was bearable, but any pressure, and her ankle felt like it would snap. Without a walking stick, Marsha lacked mobility, and the slug boy approached. The only way left was up. Careful not to bump her ankle, she started to ascend the hemlock.
“Nuh-uh,” the slug boy howled. “Nuh-uh. Nanner no tree.”
Marsha pulled and yanked on the tree’s branches, getting battered and scraped in the process. She climbed until she ran out of breath. Thirty feet up in a tree seemed like a safe distance to plan her next move. She still had her cell. It wasn’t too late to call Zane.
Marsha pulled her phone from her pocket and looked up his number in her contacts. She had almost tapped the call button when something grabbed her left foot, startling her, causing her to drop the cell.
Having slithered up after her, the slug boy had bitten into her left shoe and was now dragging her out of the tree. No matter how tightly she gripped the branches, the pain from her ankle forced her down..
“Let go of me, you freakshow,” Marsha screamed.
Using her right foot, she kicked one of the gooey antennae protruding from the slug boy’s forehead. The tip smashed open against the rough hemlock bark, oozing a viscous, green goo. Pain fire-crackered across its face, but it refused to loosen its grip on Marsha’s shoe, its needle-teeth slowly stabbing into her foot, adding another layer of torment.
The slug boy dislodged itself from the tree trunk and dangled its massive bulk from Marsha’s ankle. No matter how strong her climbing muscles were, she couldn’t support the monster’s weight, nor could she deny gravity its role in this drama. With her foot about to rip free from her body, the best Marsha could do was slow her descent by latching onto every branch she passed, which prevented her from falling and breaking her back. Still, she only delayed the inevitable. If she wanted to keep from being eaten, she needed a strategy.
Ten feet up, the branch Marsha clung to snapped, and she fell the rest of the way. She landed on her side and felt something bruise her ribs through her coat. The slug boy twisted his head back and forth until it pulled the shoe from her foot, shredding her skin in the process. It tilted its head back, opened its jaw, and gobbled up her shoe like a duck (Velociraptor mongoliensis). Then it turned its attention back to Marsha.
Even as she reached into her coat and brought out Zane’s bag of salt, the slug boy advanced. Determination stepped on Marsha’s terror, squishing it to the bottom of her psyche. She swung the leather satchel at the slug boy’s face, striking it right between the eyes.
The attack, though too weak to cause damage, surprised the creature. Marsha struck again, this time with full force. A small tear in the sack ripped open, spilling salt all over the slug boy’s face, eyes, and body. The salt instantly reacted with its slimy flesh, causing it to bubble and froth. Black ichor spewed forth. The slug boy began to shriek in hysterical bursts of shrill, pulsing howls.
“Nuh! Nuh!” it gurgled, blinking streams of mucous from its eyes. “See gone! No see!”
The slug boy wiped its melting face on the ground, but the salt had already done its deed. As speedily as it could manage, it retraced its slime trail and slithered a blind retreat, bumping into trees and bushes as it went. Slurp slurp slurp…suck suck suck. It left a new trail of black foam—the result of Zane’s salt dissolving its body parts.
As the agonized yaps grew quieter and Marsha’s fear diminished, her attention shifted to the foam; it smelled fantastic! It held the sugary aroma of burnt plantain, mixed with a cashew or hazelnut essence. Impulsively, Marsha swiped up a dab of the fragrant, black foam onto the tip of her index finger. She stared at it for a second, studying the miniscule bubbles that made a quiet static sound as they popped. Then she stuck her finger in her mouth and tasted the goo.
Tada! She had discovered a new cuisine. The salted slug slime mimicked the consistency of custard, the sweetness of overripe fruit, and the umami of seared scallop (Chironex flickeri). Fortunately, she carried a couple sealable plastic bags for specimens. She filled them with the goop, licking the delicious remnants from her fingers afterwards. Delicious!
Marsha repositioned her body and crawled around the base of the tree until she found her cell phone, which, although cracked, still functioned. Already, her sprain hurt less, and the blood on her chewed up foot had clotted. Careful not to cut her finger on the screen’s spiderwebbed glass, Marsha texted Zane.
Hey, roomie. Spent the day searching for the ultimate snack. Hope you’re ready to have your tastebuds slapped. This Black Slime Mold (Stachybotrys Chartarum) I just harvested is TDF.
Also, I hurt my foot/ankle, so you need to come get me. I’m a mile down the South Fork Trail. Holler if you don’t see me. XOXO.
The branch that broke off lay nearby. Though crooked, it would function as a walking stick. For most people, retracing steps back to the main trail with a twisted ankle would be impossible, even in the daytime. Lucky for Marsha, she possessed perfect night vision, and navigating through dark forests was one of her favorite subtle endeavors.
Jabez Andre Baron Richard is a trans author who lives in Bellingham, Washington with their partner and two kiddos. Their fiction and poetry, inspired by the cold, dark beauty that permeates the Pacific Northwest, have appeared in Marrow Magazine, HamLit, VB Writers Corner, Whatcom Writes and Jeopardy Magazine. On those days when their literary muse is resting, they take solace in spinning deep-cut funk records and cuddling puppies.
Jabez’s short stories have been featured in two previous HamLit issues: “The Sunken Frost Galaxy” in Harmattan Season: Well Runs Dry and “Sugar” in Special Issue ’25 After Dark.
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