The hand was stretched out before me, palm up.
I searched through my assets, frantically counting up my balances, determining what I could do to satisfy the demand. Nothing. Nothing of substance to present as a token of my credibility, any promises that I would pay when I had the chance mocked and rejected.
And so my collector wiped clean my holdings, picking up every representation of value and worth I had held on to so dearly, handling my goods like they were a hindrance to him. And banished me from the game.
Have you ever seen a snail in action . . . or, rather, inaction?
When I left the house one morning this week, there was a snail on my front sidewalk, its shell glistening in the post-shower sunlight. I wondered where in the world he'd found that shell out here in the fields and forests of western Pennsylvania. A few answers crossed my mind, but I was in a hurry -- an appointment notification was flashing on my phone, and I didn't have time to contemplate Mr. Snail.
Laura England Miller