Doom Slug
They speak of a
giant slug on St. Salver,
its eye stalks are
like wrecking balls,
its trail of slime
engulfs
whole herds of
cattle,
those not picked
clean of flesh
by its raspy tongue.
The giant slug of
St. Salver,
nude and stupendous
mollusk,
juggernauts gardens
and forests alike.
consumes
indiscriminately,
grows fat on its
victims’ flesh.
In hushed whispers
the tale is told,
a young lass lost in
the high country,
the gargantuan
invertebrate
ravening from the
fog,
a scream piercing
the night.
her lover waiting
vainly,
till morning burned
off the mist,
slippers embroidered
with crimson roses,
a gift from her
grandmother,
embedded in a
gelatinous moraine.
her beau set out,
torch-bearing,
determined to trap
the creature,
burn it to the core;
his skeleton, found
much later,
was pitted and
brown, brittle.
To this day, the
wilds of St. Salver
are home to fear,
slime, and death,
and one thing more:
it lays gelatinous
clusters
of basketball-sized
eggs,
and these eggs
hatch.
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