Meteorite by Dana Hammer
I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in six months. Sure, I’ve slept twenty minutes here, an hour there, but not enough. Nowhere near enough. My eyes burn, bloodshot like a drunk’s, and I don’t drink. My bones are heavy, and everything’s hazy. It’s sort of like when you have jet-lag, but instead of delightful vacation memories, there’s only endless TV and phone scrolling.
I should take a vacation.
I’ve tried many, many things to sleep, including:
*meditation
*strenuous exercise
*gentle exercise
*coloring with crayons in a coloring book, like a child
*warm milk
*chamomile
*masturbation
*staying awake as long as I can, in a sort of “reverse psychology” ploy.
*eliminating blue light
*eliminating electronics
*listening to music
*earmuffs and sleeping masks
*fung shui
*sleeping pills
*weed
*masturbation
*heavy meals
*massage
*lavender scented everything
*warm bath
*hot shower
*self hypnosis
*therapy
My point is, I’m not one to ignore the situation. I’m trying my best, but it’s so far been an intractable problem.
So, tonight I’m trying something new. My buddy Zack recommended that I try “chow”. Technically, chow is an illegal drug, one that creepy men use to drug ladies in clubs. Like roofies, for the new generation. The etiology of the name “chow” is disputed. Some say it’s because the easiest way to use it is to put the drug in food or drink — it is an odorless and flavorless powder. Some say it was invented by a shadowy figure named “Mr. Chow”. Regardless, it is illegal as hell, but I’m going to take some tonight.
What can I say? I need sleep, and I’m desperate.
Zack brought the chow over to my studio apartment while I was at work, and left it on the counter for me, with a little note that said “Good luck!”. I don’t know where he got the drug, nor to do I care to know, but I’m grateful to have such a winningly sketchy friend. Frankly, if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’m going to be a danger to others and myself.
I take the powder, which is in a little plastic baggie, and I examine it, opening the bag and taking a sniff. The powder curls up into my nostrils, making my wheeze and cough. This is why no one inhales it.
Anyway, after my coughing fit, I settle down and decide to mix it into a mug of hot cocoa. Hot cocoa is an inherently soothing beverage, reminiscent of childhood snow days and fireplaces and Christmas.
I head to the stove and turn on the burner. I get out the ingredients: cocoa powder, heavy cream, sugar, cinnamon, marshmallows. The act of making cocoa is, in and of itself, meditative, and I enjoy it. I’m looking forward to sleep the way prisoners look forward to cheeseburgers and sex. My body aches for it. I am ready.
There’s no sense in doing this half-assed. I decide to add some sprinkles and whipped cream, and I get those out of the fridge and pantry, respectively. I get my bed all set up. I put on fresh, crisp sheets. I fluff the pillow. I dust, so everything is polished and perfect. By the time I’m done with this, my cocoa is boiling, and I pour it into a large, squat mug. I stir in the chow, topping it with the whipped cream and sprinkles.
I bring it with me and sit on the bed. I have a small end table next to the bed, and I set the mug on the table, and turn on some music. Soothing jazz, mellow and slow.
And just as I’m ready to take a drink, I hear it. A loud, ball-clenching scream, from outside.
Well, I can’t ignore a scream like that. It sounds like a lady scream. If I ignore it, I’ll never be able to sleep again, because every time I try, I’ll be thinking about the poor girl who got attacked outside my building, while I sat inside drinking hot cocoa with sprinkles.
I set down the mug and rush outside, forgetting a jacket, which I immediately regret, as it’s freezing-ass cold, everything coated in ice.
I recognize the girl immediately. She’s a teenager, fifteen or sixteen, and she lives in the building at the end of the street. She walks by my building every day almost, usually with a few friends, or her little sister. I think her name is Anna. Annie. Something like that.
But that doesn’t matter right now, because right now she’s bleeding profusely from the head. She’s stumbling around, holding her face.
“Hey, are you ok?”
That’s a stupid question, because obviously she is not ok; she’s bleeding from the head.
“I got hit in the head,” she moans.
“Someone hit you?”
I look around. I’m not a small man, but I’m not a large one either, and I’m not armed. I’m sleep deprived. I enjoy whipped cream and sprinkles. If a terrifying thug is hanging around somewhere, I’ll do my best…but I’m not confident in my fist-fighting abilities.
“No, it was this…thing. Something fell on my head.”
She points at something on the ground.
I move closer and examine it. It’s a rock. Not a huge rock, about the size of a half-dollar, but not round. It’s an odd shape, with lots of dents and dimples. Still, it would hurt if it hit you in the head. I pick it up and examine it. It’s heavy for its size, very dense.
I know what it is immediately. It’s a meteorite. This girl got hit with a meteorite, outside my apartment, of all places.
I love meteorites. I put it in my pocket.
“It just, like, fell out of the sky.”
Anna or Annie stumbles and falls to the ground.
“Ok, hey, let me help you.”
I help Anna or Annie get to her feet.
“You want me to call your parents?”
“NO!”
Her shouting startles me.
“Ok.”
“I’m not supposed to be out of the house,” she explains. And I remember that it’s 1:30am, and a school night, and of course this child isn’t supposed to be wandering around the city by herself.
“Ok, well you’re bleeding pretty badly. You need to get that looked at. Can I call an ambulance?”
“NO! They’ll call my parents!”
“Ok.”
I think for a minute.
“Alright. Come inside. I’ll get you an ice pack or something, and you can figure out someone to call, who can come get you.”
She looks at me with such suspicion, I almost wonder if I AM a sexual predator.
“I’ll wait out here, it’s ok.”
“You have a head injury, and you can’t even walk straight, and it’s like ten degrees. I’m not leaving you out here by yourself. Just come inside. You can get cleaned up and wait for your ride.”
She looks at me for a moment, then nods.
Together we walk into my apartment, and I shudder, both from the cold, and from seeing the apartment through a pretty, vibrant young girl’s eyes. It’s a three-hundred-foot studio, shabby, and mostly undecorated. When I was a teenager, I would have judged a forty year old man who lived in a place like this. I would have wondered what shitty life choices he must have made that brought him to such a low state. I would have sworn to do better than this sad, sad guy.
I would have been a total asshole about it.
Anna or Annie doesn’t seem overly concerned about my living quarters though. Anna or Annie is clutching her head and moaning. Blood is dripping onto her thick winter coat.
“Ok, just have a seat,” I tell her.
“Where?” She asks, and I realize she has a point. The only furniture I have that can be sat upon is the bed. I do not want to tell a young girl to sit on my bed.
“Just…wherever. I’m getting you a towel.”
Anna or Annie takes off her coat, and I’m scandalized by what she’s wearing – or not wearing – underneath. Where the hell was this child going dressed like that? Not to sound like an old man, but Jesus Christ. What looked like ordinary leggings in the relative dark of the outdoors, are in fact made of some shiny vinyl material. Her top is basically just a bra. There is a half-nude child in my apartment, aaaaaand now she’s laying on my bed. She has covered herself with her coat, like it’s a blanket, making herself right at home, so at least she’s not exposed.
I hand her a bunch of napkins that came with the Thai takeout I’d ordered for dinner.
“Do you have someone you can call to come get you?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll call Carrie. She’s got a car.”
“Ok, great. Call Carrie.”
She fumbles around in her coat, looking for her phone.
“God I’m so dizzy. I can’t…”
“Here, let me help.”
I grab her coat and search through the pockets. There is no phone.
“There’s no phone in here,” I tell her. “Did you leave it somewhere?”
“Shit,” she says. “Maybe it fell out of my pocket.”
“Ok. No worries. You can use my phone.”
“I don’t know Carrie’s number.”
“Ok, who else can you call?”
“I don’t know anyone’s number!”
These Gen Z kids. Seriously. I wonder if she knows her social security number, or her blood type, or her home address. Is all that stored in her phone? Does she use her memory for anything at all?
I sigh.
“Alright, I’m gonna go outside and see if your phone fell out on the sidewalk when you got hit.”
It seems conceivable. She was stumbling around and falling a lot.
“Thanks,” she says.
And then she rolls over and vomits. All over my carpet. The carpet isn’t exceptionally clean anyway, but still.
“Sorry,” she says, and starts to cry.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, worried about it.
I head outside, remembering my jacket this time. The street lights provide enough illumination for me to see, and I carefully examine the sidewalk, walking around until I find it! A shiny pink case, with rhinestones all over it. YES!
I grab the phone and head back inside.
And see Anna or Annie. Drinking my mug of drug-laced cocoa.
“NO!”
I grab the mug from her, but it’s obviously too late. She’s already downed over half of it.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say.
“Sorry. My mouth tasted gross,” she said.
“So you just pick up a drink and drink it? Don’t they teach you kids these days about not drinking drinks poured by strangers?”
She starts to look properly alarmed.
“Did you drug this?”
“I mean.”
Here’s the tricky part. Should I tell this girl that I drugged a mug of cocoa? What if she runs out the door before I can fully explain? She’ll tell everyone about the creepy dude who lives down the street from her, and how he lured her into his apartment and gave her drugged cocoa.
But she’s gonna find out anyway, one way or another.
“Ok, yes. But I wasn’t planning on you drinking it. It wasn’t for you.”
She gets up off the bed, angry.
“Well who was it for, you sicko?”
She falls onto the floor, on her hands and knees.
“OH god, everything’s spinning.”
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I say. “Enough is enough.”
“NO!”
She screams so loudly I’m sure my neighbor, Jen, hears. She hears a half-naked child screaming in my room, and she’s gonna call the cops, and they’re gonna find a half-naked child in my room, bleeding from the head, drugged on chow. They’ll make the appropriate big deal about it, and I’ll go to prison for a very long time. They will not feel sorry for me because I’m an insomniac.
“SHHH!” I shush. “Be quiet, ok? The thing is, we need you to puke that cocoa up.”
“Ok,” she says. Her words are slurred. That’s not a good sign.
“I’ll get you a bowl.”
I get her a bowl from the cupboard and set it down next to her.
“Ok, just puke up as much as you can.”
She sticks a finger down her throat and tries. She tries so hard to vomit, and nothing comes out.
“Try harder!” I screech, and I can hear how high-pitched and panicky I sound, and I hate it. “You just puked all over my carpet. Do that again! Do it!”
But it’s too late. I watch, and it’s the worst moment of my life. Her eyes close. Her hand falls out of her mouth. She pitches forward, her head landing in the perfectly clean bowl, her butt stuck up in the air, shiny in her vinyl pants. She’s like a giant toddler giving in to a nap, after fighting it all afternoon. A giant toddler sent here to ruin my goddamn life.
I pick up my phone, prepared to call an ambulance. After all, this does seem like a medically important situation. I can’t imagine the chow is good for her head injury. That’s what I should do.
But.
Images of myself flash in my mind. Handcuffed. Beaten by giant criminals. Forced to shit in front of those same criminals. Losing the only good thing I have going in my life; my relative freedom.
And when I get out of prison, if I ever get out, it’s not like I’ll have an awesome life to look forward to. I’ll always be the creep who drugged an innocent young girl. No will will hire me. No one will be friends with me. No one will date me. My life, if the cops get involved, will be over.
There’s only one thing I can do. I contact Zack.
###
Zack is here in a flash, bursting through the door in a haze of cigarette smoke and cold winter air. He examines Anna or Annie, as if he’s a doctor or something, which he most definitely is not. He crawls around on the floor, listening to her back, opening her eyelids with his thick, pokey fingers.
“She’s breathing. She’s ok, for now.”
“Good.”
“Let’s get her on the bed.”
“The bed?”
“Do you wanna leave her like this? Face down in a motherfucking bowl, her ass up in the air?”
He makes a good point. I’m not a monster. Together we manage to get her up onto the bed. She’s a tiny thing, but she’s unconscious, which makes it harder to maneuver.
“What the hell happened?” Zack asks, sitting on the floor, breathing heavily. He’s wearing his black leather jacket, and that strange air of authority he has. Immediately, I feel a little calmer, just having him here. He’ll know what to do.
“She got hit in the head with a rock. I invited her in, to call someone to come get her, and she drank all my cocoa.”
“You put the chow in cocoa? That’s fucking adorable.”
“Shut up.”
“Well, why’d you let her drink it, man?”
“I didn’t! I went outside to look for her phone, and when I came back, she’d drank it.”
Zack takes out a cigarette and lights it. I don’t bother telling him not to smoke in here. It’s not the time.
“That’s fucked up, buddy.”
“I’m aware of that, yes.”
“Where’s her phone?”
The question takes me aback for a moment.
“Her phone?”
“Yes, her motherfucking phone.”
I find it, where I’d dropped it on the floor,. I hand it to him.
He sets it on the ground and smashes it.
“Whoa! What the hell?”
“What? If her parents are looking for her, they’re gonna track her phone. Then they’ll find her here. You want that?”
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m so glad Zack is here. I take a deep breath.
“No.”
“Right.”
“Now we gotta film this.”
“Film it? Film what?”
“Film us sitting here, just like this. We’re gonna record her on the bed, and us here on the ground, and us not touching her. At all. That way when she wakes up, we can show it to her, so she knows we didn’t fuck with her.”
Zack is a genius.
I get my phone and set it up to record her. I plug it into the charger, so it’ll record as long as necessary. I set the camera on the end table, aimed at Anna or Annie’s sleeping body.
“Now we’re gonna watch her. If her breathing gets weird, or she starts puking or whatever…we’re gonna have to call an ambulance.”
Zack looks at me closely, gauging my reaction.
I nod.
“I really hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say.
“No. Me neither. But if it does…you’re not gonna tell them where you got the chow, right?”
“No! Of course not.”
Zack watches me for a few beats, then nods, satisfied, I guess.
“You’re a good guy. But Jesus, you get yourself into some weird situations,” he says, dragging on his cigarette.
“I know,” I say. And all of a sudden, I’m exhausted. Bone-deep, real exhaustion, the kind you get from working hard and vanquishing your enemies.
“Zack?”
“What?”
“I think…I think I’m tired.”
“Really? NOW you’re tired?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit, I don’t think I’m gonna sleep for days. But…ok, I guess. Go to sleep.”
“Is it ok with you? You’ll keep watch?”
“Yeah, man, I’ll keep watch.”
I grab a pillow from the bed, and lay it on the ground. I’m gonna savor this. It’s gonna be the best sleep I’ve ever had. My head is fluffily numb, and full of fatigue.
I lay down. And am promptly annoyed by the lump in my pocket. What is it? Right. The meteorite.
I take it out of my pocket and set it down next to me.
Zack picks it up and looks at it. I don’t care. I close my eyes.
“Why is there blood on this?”
I open my eyes.
“Oh. That’s the rock that hit Anna. Or Annie. Her,” I say, gesturing toward the girl.
“This is your meteorite.”
“It’s a meteorite yeah.
“No, this is YOUR meteorite.”
I’m awake now.
“What are you talking about? It fell from the sky and hit her in the head.”
“Dude. This is the exact meteorite you showed me when I was here last week. You said you bought it on eBay.”
“What? I’ve never bought anything on eBay in my life.”
Zack peers at me with narrowed eyes.
“Are you fucking with me right now?”
“No, I’m not fucking with you! I don’t shop on eBay. And I wouldn’t buy a meteorite.”
“A week ago. I was here. You showed me this exact rock. You said ‘look at this crater. It’s the exact shape of a star’. I remember that shit.”
There is a star shaped crater on the meteorite. I hadn’t noticed until he said something.
“Zack. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think you’re mixed up.”
Zack is on his feet.
“I gotta get outta here.”
“What? Why?”
He spins and looks at me.
“I don’t know man. This is fucked up.”
“What’s fucked up? This?” I gesture to Anna. Or Annie. “It’s not my fault. This is all a huge mishap. Like Three’s Company or something. We’ll laugh about it later.”
He holds the meteorite in his hand.
“Why is there blood on your meteorite?”
He asks it calmly.
“It hit her in the head.”
“And how did it hit her in the head?”
An images flashes in my head. Me standing on the roof, shivering.
I immediately banish the image. That wasn’t me. That was my imagination. I would never.
“It fell from the sky. She said so herself.”
Zack nods.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why you asked me to come here. I don’t know what you’re trying to get me…involved in. But I’m out. I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head sadly and turns to leave.
“Zack.”
He stops.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. I can hear the pleading in my voice, and I would do anything to make myself sound confident and brave. Like Zack.
“Ok,” he says. But he leaves, taking the meteorite with him.
Shit. I take a deep breath and sit on the ground. The delicious fatigue that blessed me earlier is now gone. My best friend suspects me of…what, exactly? Why would I drug a girl on purpose and then invite him over? What kind of plan is that? Does he think I bludgeoned her? Does he think I’m crazy?
I’ve never bought anything on eBay in my life. Maybe he’s the crazy one.
On impulse, I grab my phone. I need to look up my search history. I need to prove, to myself if not to Zack, that the meteorite isn’t mine, that I never bought it, that it fell from the sky and hurt this child. It was an act of God. Not an act of me.
Sirens wail in the distance.
I bring up eBay, and am surprised to see that it logs me in immediately.
I have an eBay account.
All my blood drains into my feet, and I break out in a sweat. What the hell is going on?
I click on the purchase history.
There is a knock on the door.
“Police, open up.”
I scroll. There are a number of purchases, all for things I don’t recognize. Did someone create an account in my name? I’ve never seen any of these things. There is a paint set, the kind a child might use, with bold primary colors, in a plastic case. A “No Soliciting” sign, printed on light-colored wood. I don’t have a sign like that. My neighbor Jen does. She put one up recently, right under her front window.
The door bursts open and two police officers enter my apartment.
I look up at them, knowing this is the end for me.
“I didn’t hurt her. I have insomnia. None of this was on purpose.”
On the bed, Anna or Annie moans.
The cops, who are a men a little older than I am, see the girl and then glare at me, eyes full of hate. They have daughters, I’m sure, the same age as Anna or Annie. They are protective of their girls, and if any guy lured them into his apartment, and drugged her with sprinkle-and-chow-laced-cocoa, that guy would be dead.
In their eyes, that guy is me.
I hold out my hands, and wait for the inevitable.
Dana Hammer is the author of several short stories and novellas which have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. She recently signed a book deal with Cinnabar Moth Publishing for her adult novel, The Cannibal’s Guide to Fasting. The novel will be released in 2022. She has won numerous awards for her screenwriting and playwriting, and one one of her screenplays has been optioned by EMA Films. You can find links to some of her writing at www.danahammer.com.
What if ours weren’t the only reality? What if the past paths converged, if those moments that led to our current circumstances got tangled together with their alternates and we found ourselves caught up in the threads?
Marla returned home after the funeral and wake. She drew the key in the lock and opened the door slowly, the looming dread of coming back to an empty house finally sinking in. Everyone else had gone home with their loved ones. They had all said, “goodbye,” and moved along.
Her daughter Misty and son-in-law Joel had caught a flight to Springfield so he could be at work the next day for the big meeting. Her brother Darcy was on his way back to Montreal. Emmett and Ruth were at home next door, probably washing dishes from the big meal they had helped to provide afterward, seeing as their kitchen light was on. Marla remembered there being food but couldn’t recall what exactly as she hadn’t felt like eating. Sandwiches probably… she’d have to thank them later.
Marla had felt supported up until she turned the key in the lock after the services, but then the realization sank deep in her throat like acid reflux, hanging heavy on her heart – everyone else had other lives to return to except for her. She sighed and stepped through the threshold onto the outdated beige linoleum tile and the braided rag rug that stretched across it. She closed the door behind herself and sighed again. She wiped her shoes reflexively on the mat before just kicking them off to land in a haphazard heap in the entryway.
The still silence of the house enveloped her, its oppressive emptiness palpable – she could feel it on her skin, taste it on her tongue. It was bitter. She sighed and walked purposefully to the living room, the large rust-orange sofa waiting to greet her. She flopped into its empty embrace, dropping her purse at her side as she did so.
A familiar, husky voice greeted her from deeper within the large, empty house. “Where have you been?”
Marla looked up and glanced around. Her husband Frank was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a bowl. Marla gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth. Her clutched appendage took on a life of its own, slowly relinquishing itself of her gaping jaw and extending a first finger to point at the specter.
“Frank?” she spoke hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the man replied, holding the now-dry bowl nestled in the faded blue-and-white-checkered kitchen towel in both hands. “Who else would you expect?”
“But you’re dead,” Marla spat, the words falling limply from her mouth of their own accord.
The 66-year old man looked around confusedly and turned to face Marla, his silver hair sparkling in the light from the kitchen, illuminated from behind like a halo. “What are you talking about? I’m just here washing up after lunch. You were gone so I made myself some soup. Where have you been?”
“No, I just got home from your funeral,” Marla spoke quietly. “You are dead. After the boating accident… You drowned. I went along to the hospital – they pronounced you dead on arrival.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said. “What boating accident?”
“The sailboat… You were going to take me out,” Marla coughed, her brown eyes glossed over with tears.
“We don’t own a sailboat,” Frank said bluntly. “Sure, I’d thought about it – it seems like a cool retirement hobby – but it’s just too expensive. We’ve talked about this, we can’t afford it.”
Marla glanced out the bay window towards the driveway where the small sailboat sat on its trailer, its orange hull reminiscent of the Florida citrus industry, and also of the life jacket Frank should have been wearing when he’d been pulled under. Marla cringed and turned back toward the kitchen. She sighed and spoke again, “But the boat’s out front. The guys at the marina helped to bring it back… after you… drowned.”
Frank had retreated to the kitchen to put away the bowl. Marla followed. She stood in the doorway and studied the man intently. He was unmistakably her husband, there was no denying it even despite her having just witnessed his waxen lifeless body in the coffin at the wake before the burial, though this Frank was a slight bit more overweight than she remembered.
“Well, that’s not possible. Because I’m still here,” Frank grumbled. He turned to face her, his blue eyes edged with worry. “There now, it was probably just a dream. You knew I wanted a boat and your anxiety just formulated the worst-case scenario…”
“See for yourself,” Marla said, her voice lilting with every syllable.
Frank strode into the living room and stared out the bay window. The driveway was vacant save for some bits of Spanish moss strewn over the concrete from the neighboring live oak tree. He turned towards his wife.
“But there’s no boat,” he sighed. “You must have had a bad dream. Did you fall asleep in the car in the garage again?” Concern was written all over his face, deepening every crease and wrinkle. “Is that where you were? The garage?”
Marla glanced again at the boat, plain as day, and turned to face Frank. Her voice grew stubborn. “It’s right here. How can you miss it?” she said, pointing at the orange behemoth.
“Honey, there’s nothing there,” Frank exclaimed, exasperation creeping into his voice.
Marla huffed and strode to the entryway, gathering her shoes from where they waited in their haphazard heap alongside the braided rag run on the worn linoleum floor. She marched out the door as Frank took vigil in its open frame, still staring at her. She stomped out to the boat and slapped her hand on the fiberglass surface with a resounding smack. The boat was warm to the touch, having baked in the Florida sun. She turned back towards the front door.
“See!” she bellowed.
The door stood open, empty. No one was there, watching. Marla sighed again and walked back inside. The vacant house once again enveloped her in its oppressive emptiness. Frank was nowhere to be found.
So I guess it’s goodbye for now. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Today on Nightmarish Nature we’re gonna revisit The Blob and jiggle our way to terror. Why? ‘Cause we’re just jellies – looking at those gelatinous denizens of the deep, as well as some snot-like land-bound monstrosities, and wishing we could ooze on down for some snoozy booze schmoozing action. Or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what exactly it is that jellyfish and slime molds do but whatever it is they do it well, which is why they’re still around despite being among the more ancient organism templates still in common use.
Jellyfish are on the rise.
Yeah, yeah, some species like moon jellies will hang out in huge blooms near the surface feeding, but that’s not what I meant. Jellyfish populations are up. They’re honing in on the open over-fished ocean and making themselves at home. Again.
And, although this makes the sea turtles happy since jellies are a favorite food staple of theirs, not much else is excited about the development. Except for those fish that like to hide out inside of their bells, assuming they don’t accidentally get eaten hanging out in there. But that’s a risk you gotta take when you’re trying to escape predation by surrounding yourself in a bubble of danger that itself wants to eat you. Be eaten or be eaten. Oh, wait…
So what makes jellies so scary?
Jellyfish pack some mighty venom. Despite obvious differences in mobility, they are related to anemones and corals. But not the Man o’ War which looks similar but is actually a community of microorganisms that function together as a whole, not one creature. Not that it matters when you’re on the wrong end of a nematocyst, really. Because regardless what it’s attached to, that stings.
Box jellies are among the most venomous creatures in the world and can move of their own accord rather than just drifting about like many smaller jellyfish do. And even if they aren’t deadly, the venom from many jellyfish species will cause blisters and lesions that can take a long time to heal. So even if they do resemble free-floating plastic grocery bags, you’d do best to steer clear. Because those are some dangerous curves.
But what does this have to do with slime molds?
Absolutely nothing. I honestly don’t know enough about jellyfish or slime molds to devote the whole of a Nightmarish Nature segment to either, so they had to share. Essentially, this bit is what happened when I decided to toast a bagel before coming up with something to write about and spent a tad too much time in contemplation of my breakfast. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t have any cream cheese or clotted cream…
Oh, and also thinking about gelatinous cubes and oozes in the role-playing game sense – because those sort of seem like a weird hybrid between jellies and slime molds, as does The Blob. Any of those amoeba influenced creatures are horrific by their very nature – they don’t even need to be souped up, just ask anyone who’s had dysentery.
And one of the most interesting thing about slime molds is that they can take the shortest path to food even when confronted with very complex barriers. They are maze masterminds and would give the Minotaur more than a run for his money, especially if he had or was food. They have even proven capable of determining the most efficient paths for water lines or railways in metropolitan regions, which is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Check it out in Scientific American here. So, if we assume that this is essentially the model upon which The Blob was built, then it’s kind of a miracle anything got away. And slime molds are coming under closer scrutiny and study as alternative means of creating computer components are being explored.
Jellies are the Wave of the Future.
We are learning that there may be a myriad of uses for jellyfish from foodstuffs to cosmetic products as we rethink how we interact with them. They are even proving useful in cleaning up plastic pollution. I don’t know how I feel about the foodstuff angle for all that they’ve been a part of various recipes for a long time. From what I’ve seen of the jellyfish cookbook recipes, they just don’t look that appealing. But then again I hate boba with a passion, so I’m probably not the best candidate to consider the possibility.
So it seems that jellies are kind of the wave of the future as we find that they can help solve our problems. That’s pretty impressive for some brainless millions of years old critter condiments. Past – present – perpetuity! Who knows what else we’d have found if evolution hadn’t cleaned out the fridge every so often?
Feel free to check out more Nightmarish Nature here.
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrick’s Days… though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I don’t know how you managed to find me after all this time. We haven’t been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, you’ve managed to find me every St. Patrick’s Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. It’s a little disconcerting, like I’m starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hut…
Anyway as I’d mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And I’d already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, he’d already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Monty’s crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didn’t want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew they’d want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livin’ the dream. We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick ‘em. It’s like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least it’s not high maintenance women who won’t toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and it doesn’t work like in the movies. I wasn’t bitten, and I generally don’t bite unless provoked. He says technically I’m a wolfwere, to which I just reply “Where?” and smile. Whatever. It’s the little things I guess. I just wish everything didn’t come out as a bark most of the time, though Monty’s gotten pretty good at interpreting… As long as he doesn’t get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livin’ the dream. There aren’t all that many rabbits out here but it’s quiet and the locals don’t seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like he’s gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantry’s stocked it’s no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that already…
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Jennifer Weigel
September 8, 2021 at 4:11 am
Brilliant, like a star-studded leather jacket. Ah, my nemesis eBay is at it again, the plight of insomniacs everywhere since the home shopping channel went the way of the dodo. Those were the nights, I seriously needed that As Seen on TV hard-boiled eggstractor. But what to do now that it’s 3:00 AM and I’m banned from eBay?…