Harold the Slug

Harold was a slug.

Slugs certainly weren’t the most majestic of animals. They weren’t beautiful, they weren’t fast, they didn’t smell nice. Slugs just were.

Harold didn’t particularly enjoy being a slug. Throughout school, he would watch the other animals on the playground from the sidelines, wishing he was one of them. He could have been cute and cuddly like a cat, loyal like a dog, colorful like a chameleon.

But instead, he was a slimy, dingy slug.

The animals shared Harold’s sentiment toward himself. They didn’t much like him, either. And the situation just got worse when Sally the Squirrel slipped on his sludge trail and broke her leg when they were in high school.

After school, Harold didn’t know what to do with his life. He had no desire to go to college, although his grades were good enough, and he wasn’t ready to start a job and settle down into the nine-to-five lifestyle.

So he decided to travel around Europe. Maybe, he hoped, the Europeans would help him accept himself more. And maybe traveling with not much more than his thoughts would help him find his life goals.

The trip to Europe was beautiful to Harold. He started in Amsterdam, slithered around the watery and gorgeous city. He then found his way out of the Netherlands and into Germany and Denmark.

Finally, he backtracked to France. He was quite excited. He’d heard from people in other countries and read on the internet about how fantastic France was and how excellent the food tasted.

He was not disappointed. Harold approached Paris with a speed he more equated to a sloth or something else speedy like that than his own kind.

The lights! The people! The language! It all fascinated him breathless.

The first restaurant he found, he entered. People of all shapes and sizes sat at the tables, dressed in elegant fabrics and eating five-star food.

“Table for one,” Harold told the host at the front stand.

The host cast a look upon the slug and widened his eyes for an instant. After the second was over, he regained his composure and cleared his throat. “One moment, sir,” he muttered in accented English before hurrying off to check for an available table.

Harold watched the people while they ate. The restaurant seemed to have quieted down a little since he entered, but he figured his ears were just growing used to the sound.

“Come with me, sir,” the host voiced suddenly, appearing back at the stand out of nowhere.

Harold trudged behind, leaving an ever-present layer of slime in his wake. “What about the menu?” he asked, realizing the waiter’s hands were empty.

The host either ignored him or didn’t hear him.

So Harold asked again, a little louder, hoping he’d be heard over the din.

“No menu,” the host replied curtly.

Harold didn’t know if the host meant the establishment didn’t have menus or if the host simply didn’t want to give him a menu.

It wasn’t until the host threw open the kitchen door that Harold felt a pang in his stomach. He definitely wasn’t getting seated at a table.

He went to turn around, to glide faster than he’d ever glided before. He could almost picture himself floating through the restaurant, escaping to the outside world. Out to the glamour he’d left.

But it was too late. Before he could make a single move, the cooks jumped on him, screaming in rapid-fire French, voices heightened with enthusiasm, that Harold could not understand.

From the corner of his eye, Harold saw his worst fear come to life. A giant shaker filled with white powder. There was no doubt what the substance was.

“No! I'm not a snail!” Harold tried to call out, but the scream never left his mouth.

The chefs sprinkled and dashed the salt all over Harold, a look of feverous and perverse excitement in their eyes.

Harold felt his outsides close in one itself, and he suddenly felt like a raisin or prune. Something even uglier than he had been before.