It began on a chilly day in April. The sounds of children at play could be heard through the murky windows of the dilapidated home. Dust floated gently down, disturbed by the single ray of sunshine piercing the solitary darkness. Upon the matted carpet sat an old woman, dressed in a ragged red satin dress, her fading green eyes watched with love the small wet creature clutched within her wrinkled hands.
The small creature contracted and retracted so as to glide across the wrinkled surface. Leaving behind a trail of mucus, it betrays the origin of its journey. Travelling up the arm of the old woman and across her chest, the slug comes to rest across her heart. Tears ooze out of the once beautiful woman’s eyes, and with two short gasps. She dies.
Across the nation, similar lonely old women and men are found in identical positions, a trail of slime leading from hand to heart, remnants of tears blotching the face and their dead body dressed in their finest wear. They all now slowly decay upon their living room floors, and all are victims of this epidemic.
But, this epidemic might be one of love and passing on, perhaps hugging a slug isn’t so bad, they need love just as we do, it’s just unfortunate that hugging a slug kills you.