Slug Storm

Slipping along the stem, feet moving like buttered skis, and only through luck and perseverance do I not fall. Green waves above me, prickles and stems and chew holes letting sunlight heap upon me. My journey is slow, inexorable, but not devoid of backtracking. Slimy exudate follows in my wake. Petrichor and chlorophyl pull me forward.

I slide to the left, and heave my body back on course. Lift my head. Lift my middle. Lift my back. Move. This is the sequence I must repeat.

Something moves toward me, faster than the speed of thought. Huge globules of water murk the sunlight, dash toward me, splash off the greenery, and cascade around me as I huddle-climb the slippery slope. I'm so close. I can almost taste it.

More water. A fierce gust of air buffets the stem and the movement is violent. I can't dodge this. I can only continue my way in the meagre lee of the meal I approach.