Interview with a slug

Through the cracks and beyond the lines

Something glistens. A slow, silvered shimmer across the kitchen worktop. I stop, move closer.

A slug.

Tiny, translucent mottled brown, delicate, no larger than my fingertip. They move with a patience my soul craves but my urgent morning cannot allow. Stretching forward, feeling their way. Their body both firm and fluid, a contradiction that does not need resolving.

I cup my hand in their path, careful not to disturb the air, not to move too quickly, only to offer a bridge to the garden. A moment’s hesitation, a drawing in. Then, stretching out again, undulating forward. I feel the almost imperceptible cool damp traverse my palm. A shimmer of gold seeps into their trail, a shielding alchemy against my too-warm, too-dry, too-salty skin.

They pause, lifting their eye stalks, sensing something unseen. The air, the moisture, the warmth of my hand. They do not rush, only stretch forward, leaving a shining thread of themselves behind.

They move as though they have all the time in the world. Perhaps they do.

“Some think slowness is a failing,” they observe, though no words have been spoken.

“That to take time is to waste it. That movement must always be toward something, as if the act of going is not enough. Some measure life in speed. I measure it in movement itself. In touch, in scent, in the give of soil and the taste of lichen. A life is not less because it moves slowly.”

Their body ripples, silvered in the light.

“Some like to name things. To sort, to separate. Male and female. He and she. Boy and girl. Man. Woman. Small boxes, tight lids. But what grows in a box with no room to breathe?”

A pause. A shimmer in their trail.

“And it is not enough for them to name things, they must enforce their names. They believe their way of seeing is the only way to see, their truth the only truth. They do not question where their lines were drawn, only that they must be obeyed. And when something does not fit, they do not expand their world. They try to force it to fit, to bend it, to break it, to deny it exists at all.

But I do not bend to their will. I do not shrink to fit their lines. I slip through the spaces they do not see. I move beyond them, across them, through the cracks they believed were closed. I am both. I am neither. I am myself. They accept it in me without question, yet resist it in their own kind. How small their world must be, built of walls they think should not be crossed.”

A slow stretch forward. They leave behind their glistening thread, unconcerned with what is thought of them.

“They use my name as an insult. Slow. Lazy. Unwelcome. Something lesser. Strange. I do not rush, but I do not stop.

But they do not mean slow. Not really. They mean something worse. Something wretched, something without dignity. They call things ugly that are only unfamiliar. They strip the dignity from creatures whose only crime is being different. But their words do not change me.

I have dignity. I have purpose. I am part of something vast and intricate. I break down what is dead and return it to the earth, so that life may begin again.”

I think of the way we use words. The way we reach into nature to find symbols of all that is wretched, as if cruelty belongs to the earth and not to ourselves. As if we can pass our worst qualities onto creatures that have never deserved them.

“Nature does not make cruelty,” they seem to sense my thoughts.

“Nature does not make greed, nor depravity, nor the desire to harm for the sake of harm. That is something else entirely. Something unnatural.”

They pause, sensing something more.

“But they will never name that after themselves. Instead, they will name it after me. After the rat, after the worm, after the vulture. They will take what is necessary and call it wretched, so they do not have to see the truth of what they are.

And it is not just words. They do not simply refuse to see. They judge. They decide what is right and what is wrong, what is allowed and what is forbidden. What is worthy of kindness, and what deserves cruelty. They believe they can shape the world with their approval and erase whatever they do not accept. But the world does not belong to them.”

I reach my hand down and carefully transfer them onto the damp grass.

“Do you mind?” I ask.

“No. But you should.”

Author’s Note

Slugs are soft-bodied, land-dwelling molluscs that thrive in damp environments. They’re essentially snails without shells, though some have tiny internal remnants of one. Their slimy coating helps them stay moist, move smoothly, and even deter predators.

Slugs are nocturnal and prefer cool, wet conditions, which is why they often appear after rain. They use their rasping, tongue-like radula to munch on leaves, fungi, decaying matter, and sometimes even other slugs. While gardeners often see them as pests, they play a crucial role in breaking down organic material and enriching the soil.

Slugs have some of the most fascinating reproductive biology in the animal kingdom. Most land slugs are simultaneous hermaphrodites, meaning they have both male and female reproductive organs at the same time. When they mate, they typically exchange sperm with another slug, so both can later lay eggs.

This morning, I found a tiny slug on the kitchen worktop. Recently, Mum has been telling me often and in great detail, how fascinating they are. My own ever growing obsession with noticing and capturing the often unremarked wonder that surrounds us every day, lead my creativity in quite a different direction than I had planned.

As I watched it glide across the worktop, I found myself considering their biology, their purpose and how nature exists without concern for labels or judgments. It made me think about the rigid boundaries humans create, especially around identity, and how words from nature are often twisted into insults. We call things ugly that are only unfamiliar, dismissing what does not fit our narrow idea of beauty. What started as a simple moment of curiosity turned into a reflection on language, perception, and the way we decide what is valued, or dismissed, in the world around us.