Children’s Stories from the Viewpoint of a Slug by Gerrard Wllson
*
The moral of this story if there is one,
Is do not give your teacher an apple, not even for fun,
And don’t dare put a slug in it or even a snail,
‘Cos Lousy Linda is watching; she’s bound to go tell.
Mrs Slark’s Dahlias
Hello, my name is Slo and I am a slug. For all my life (the full seven weeks of it), I have been living in Mr Moriarty’s front garden. I have always been so contented here, happily munching away on his nasturtiums, sweet williams and phlox, until one day, when I saw those huge heads; dahlias, flowers of extreme exuberance, nodding in the breeze wafting across Mrs Slark’s front garden. There was a problem, however; Mrs Slark’s front garden was on the other side of the street. It was not a busy street, mind you. It could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered busy, but it still posed a huge obstacle to a poor, lowly slug such as myself...
From the moment I first saw those huge flowers, the flowers in Mr Moriarty’s garden lost all their appeal. I might have been eating rotten potatoes for all the sense of enjoyment I felt, consuming them. Knowing how dangerous it would be, attempting to cross that street, I tried so hard to forget about them, the fantastical, wonderful flowers that were so near and yet so far...
For minute after minute and hour after hour, I tried to forget about those dahlias, the wonderful plants blooming – and so freely – in Mrs Slark’s front garden. I really did try, telling myself that I was where I was meant to be, in the old man’s garden, eating his nasturtiums, sweet williams and phlox, but it was useless, I found it impossible to forget about those fantastical flowers; blooming red, orange, pink, purple and white.
Finally, I had enough of it, of denying myself the chance of exuberant dining. Shouting, screaming, I said, “I WILL EAT THOSE DAHLIAS, EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM, AND GOD HELP THE PERSON WHO TRIES TO STOP ME!” Turning my back on Mr Moriarty’s garden, the only home I had up until then known, I waved goodbye (having no arms, I nodded my head) to his nasturtiums, sweet williams and phlox. Slithering, sliming my way under the gate, I entered the world of the street...
It was quiet on the street. I thought there would have been HU-MAN THEINGS dashing along it, not to mention the dreaded dogs and cats, but it was empty, eerily empty, without a single, solitary soul to be seen anywhere along it...
Scratching my head (having no arms I did this mentally), I slithered myself forward, the only thing offering any resistance, any concern to me, being the cracks in the pavement (cracks in the pavement can harbour all sorts of nasties, such as flesh eating parasites that can all too easily do mortal damage to a defenceless slug).
“So far, so good,” I thought, inching my way forward (though keeping a watchful, stalked eye for any HU-MAN THEING who might happen to come along unexpectedly). “Almost halfway across the path,” I chuckled, feeling braver by the second. Then a dog appeared; from one of the many gardens lining the street, a wiry, mongrel of a thing, having exited a ramshackle gate (peeing his calling card upon it), sauntered his way towards me. I froze, in fright, not daring to breathe, not even one bit.
“Has it seen me?” I wondered, crouching lower than a flat worm on a hot August day. The dog continued to saunter its way nearer and nearer, closer and closer, until I could smell its carnivorous breath, and see its ragged, ever so matted fur brimming with fleas, crawling fleas, moving fleas – and jumping fleas! Resisting the urge to throw up, I crouched lower than I had previously thought it possible to crouch. Then he was gone; in an instant, it was all over, the wiry mongrel had passed without seeing me. “Hah,” I chuckled with glee, “What a stupid, stupid dog!” Then it happened, the dog, stopping dead in his tracks, turning its head ever so slowly – saw me. I almost died with fright. I thought I was a goner. “For sure, I am finished,” I squeaked contritely. “Why did I have to go and open my big, fat mouth?” I bemoaned, “Why, why, why?”
The dog, making a beeline towards me, having heard what I had said about it, the names I had called it, was in no mood to take prisoners. “Woof,” it barked, “I will show you what I think of your words. Woof, I will eat you up, every last bit, you scrawny little slug, woof, woof!”
Closing my eyes, believing my time had all gone, I made ready to meet my maker at the green, slimy gates to the slug kingdom of heaven. I waited and waited and I waited some more, but the end of my life, the ever so sticky end I envisaged (a dog eating me – and a mongrel one at that) did not arrive.
Tentatively opening one eye, squinting in the bright sunlight, I tried to see if the dog was still there. It was not. Opening both eyes, turning my head left and then right, trying to see where it was, I was relieved, ecstatic to see that a lamppost had caught its attention. Standing on three legs, the mongrel was offering it his calling card. Seizing my opportunity, the unexpected stay on my death sentence, (I had no idea how long it might last) I slithered, sliming my way down the curb and into the street.
As I made my way surreptitiously across the street, over the ever so hot tar macadam, I heard the dog say, “Woof, woof, that’ll teach you.” Without bothering to explain what it had meant, the dog, after offering another one of its calling cards to an empty can that someone had discarded upon the path, sauntered off through one of the many gateways lining the street. It was gone.
“I wonder what that was all about.” I mumbled, thinking the dog, the scruffy old mongrel of a thing, had lost some of its marbles.
BAAARP!!!
“What the hell,” I gasped shaking with fright, “is that?”
BAAARP!!! BAAARP!!! BAAARP!!!
On turning my head, my stalked eyes almost jumped out of their sockets, for thundering down the road, heading towards me at a frightening speed, hooting its horn like there was no tomorrow, was the biggest, meanest looking lorry I had ever laid eyes on (it was also the first lorry I had ever laid eyes on).
BAAARP!!! BAAARP!!! BAAARP!!! The fast-moving lorry had no time to stop, no time to do anything, BAAARP!!! BAAARP!!! BAAARP!!! It hooted again, telling me that I had to get out of its way.
“Oh my, oh my!” I cried out, in my sorry commotion. “I am finished, a poor slug to be squashed, for sure!”
The beast of a lorry that should never have been on a suburban street in the first place thundered closer and closer, nearer and nearer. It was now so close I could see the poor driver, high in its cab. He was also in a commotion; wrestling, fighting with the steering wheel, the poor man was trying his utmost to avoid killing this frightened slug...
Finally, eventually, inevitably, the wheels of the lorry locked up – SCREEECH!!! SCREEECH!!! SCREEECH!!! Shuddering, shivering, quavering its disquiet, the lorry that I was sure had my named etched indelibly upon it, came to a halt less than an inch from my shaking, slimy body. Silence, total silence, supreme silence, nothing dared to interrupt the moment of my salvation.
Climbing down from his cab, running over to me, the driver said, “Are, are you all right?”
Inspecting myself, checking that everything was still where it was supposed to be, “I said, “Yes, yes I’m fine...”
“But,” the poor, shaking man replied, “I can feel a but coming on, I know I can!”
Feeling lower than a slug during a heat wave in the desert, I tried to wave off his concerns, saying, “It’s nothing, really.”
“Nothing – what nothing?” he asked, his concerns for my wellbeing growing by the second.
“It’s...” I mumbled.
“It’s what?” he asked, flapping his arms up and down like a crazy-mad lunatic.
“It’s ...when your tyres started screeching,” I said. “My whole life... it flashed before my eyes...all seven weeks of it. And I wondered...”
“Yes, yes,” the poor man asked, “you wondered what?”
“I wondered if that was to be my fate, dying on a street, unknown...”
Picking me up, the driver said, “Now let me tell you something...”
“What?”
Smiling cur
“I didn’t have the time for such luxury,” I replied, “with your thundering towards me like you were a racing car driver."
“I am, or at least I was," he said, smiling. "And it goes with the job.”
“What job?”
“Racing car driver, of course!” he explained. “I just told you that. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Stirling Moss,” he said ever so proudly.
Having never before heard of such a person, no penny dropped, so I said, “Sorry, never heard of you.”
Taken aback, that anyone – even a slug – could be unaware of his name, he said, “I really was a racing car driver, in the nineteen sixties, and old habits are hard to break!”
The penny dropping, I exclaimed, “The nineteen sixties, why, that’s ancient history! I’m only seven weeks old, you know!”
The penny dropped again, but this time it was for him, and he realised that us slugs live incredibly short – and dangerous – lives. With a mischievous wink, he said, “How would you like to live in Barbados, you will find it much safer there.”
“Barbados?” I replied naively. “Is that the street after the next one?”
Laughing, he said, No, it most certainly is not. Let me explain....”
In conclusion:
Sterling Moss, the most famous racing car driver – ever, invited me to go and live in his garden, the garden of his holiday home on the Caribbean island of Barbados. As first, I readily agreed to this invitation, thinking anywhere had to be better – and safer – than the street upon which I lived, where dogs, cats and fast-moving traffic posed an incredible danger to a lowly slug. However, when I found out just how far away it actually was, that I would have to travel by aeroplane, to get there, I hesitated.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” said Stirling, “before you can say Jack Robinson, you will have arrived. And my tropical garden has so many wonderful flowers; you will most surely grow into the biggest slug on the entire island.” Swayed by the forcefulness of his argument, I agreed to go live in Barbados.
Many weeks later, having eaten my fill from so many splendid tropical flowers and plants, like orchids, datura, ginger, banana, wait-a-whiles and, last but certainly not least, fizzing fruit, I had, like the old man had promised, grown into the biggest slug on the entire island. I was so fat and sluggish (no pun intended) it would have taken me a week to get out of the way of an oncoming lorry or car, but no cars or trucks could get any way near to me. You see, the old man’s garden was so large and wild I was forever getting lost in it. It was a good life. God bless us all (especially the racing car drivers).
Postscript: If you are wondering, why a world famous racing car driver was working as a lowly, lorry driver, let Stirling explain...
“Lorry drivers can be under a lot of pressure, nowadays, to get to their destinations on time, so I thought, what better way to keep my hand in with the driving than that?”
That’s Love, Isn’t It?
On a hot summer’s day,
A slug slimed through the haze,
He was usually keen, astute, never seen
In the sun, be it glorious or not.
*
The slug, called Bill.
Had a problem; love unfulfilled,
So he searched high and low, for a snail, for his beau,
Through gardens, streets and meadows.
*
He dreamed of the day when he found,
The slug of his dreams; she’s come round,
To his sluggish old ways, they’d marry, he prayed,
To his god, in the slug kingdom of heaven.
*
As he slimed his way west
Through gardens, trying his best,
He became so hot, he retired,
In the shade of a hedge, to rest.