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sadoeuphemist"I have no hands," said the snail, "and so everything I own I acquired through mere accretion." It sprawled limply across the ground, its body slack and undifferentiated, as if even the effort of speaking was too much for it to bear. "Everything I crawled through, everything I rasped up against, everything I took up for a moment and forgot to set back down - they all left their traces on me, particulates..."
Its voice dripped with disgust. "The crumbled remains of bone," it said, "left rotting in the damp places. Wood-ash. Broken shells. Limestone and sediment, fossils, debris - things dead for decades. There was something living wrapped in these once, something vital, and I -" Its voice hitched. "I don't remember how or when I got them. I only remember their presence as they are now, atop me, this fossilized arrangement. I passed through the world and I kept things beyond all worth of keeping.
"There was no plan in this," it said, and gazed up at the spiraling tower of its shell, eyes dull atop its stalks. "I mixed no mortar, laid no brick. I never once imagined living here. This began as a tiny lump on my back from the moment I was born, a calcified knob of bone. I resented it at first, this useless vestigial thing, longed to be rid of it. I flexed my back, strained myself hoping to pry it loose as it cut sharply into my flesh. But instead I've scabbed over the edges again and again, built it up imperceptibly along the lines from which it was first formed. It has grown, and grown, and grown, beyond my control or volition, from everything I've ever abandoned, ever forgotten -
"Is it beautiful?" the snail said. "It is beyond my comprehension." Its eyestalks swayed and reeled, tracing spirals, until it grew dizzy and lowered its head. "I could not have made this willingly. And yet I bear it all the same, and watch it overshadow my flesh ..." It stretched out its neck, twisted and turned to show the glistening texture of its skin. "Am I beautiful? Or do I carry beauty with me, distinct and separate, as a thing that will outlast me? A thing I only came to build by gnawing habit. That I could never again reproduce. A thing that I could not help but build if I was to keep living."
The snail let out a breath. "Well, yes," it said. "It is quite useful, I suppose. I retreat into it for shelter, and for comfort, and it is smooth and well-formed against my skin. I could not live without it. But, you see -
"I have a cousin, a slug," the snail said, its voice trembling. "And we are otherwise alike, in form and capacity and function. My foot is no less strong than hers, I can climb and crawl just as well. Except - except I carry everything I own with me.
"And she survives, just as well as I do, and finds comfort and shelter and - and that sense of safety, all without a shell to hide her.
"That's all usefulness is, isn't it," said the snail, and shrunk back, resigned, disappearing backwards inch by inch until only the shell was visible. "It's everything we've accumulated that we can no longer live without."
Its voice dripped with disgust. "The crumbled remains of bone," it said, "left rotting in the damp places. Wood-ash. Broken shells. Limestone and sediment, fossils, debris - things dead for decades. There was something living wrapped in these once, something vital, and I -" Its voice hitched. "I don't remember how or when I got them. I only remember their presence as they are now, atop me, this fossilized arrangement. I passed through the world and I kept things beyond all worth of keeping.
"There was no plan in this," it said, and gazed up at the spiraling tower of its shell, eyes dull atop its stalks. "I mixed no mortar, laid no brick. I never once imagined living here. This began as a tiny lump on my back from the moment I was born, a calcified knob of bone. I resented it at first, this useless vestigial thing, longed to be rid of it. I flexed my back, strained myself hoping to pry it loose as it cut sharply into my flesh. But instead I've scabbed over the edges again and again, built it up imperceptibly along the lines from which it was first formed. It has grown, and grown, and grown, beyond my control or volition, from everything I've ever abandoned, ever forgotten -
"Is it beautiful?" the snail said. "It is beyond my comprehension." Its eyestalks swayed and reeled, tracing spirals, until it grew dizzy and lowered its head. "I could not have made this willingly. And yet I bear it all the same, and watch it overshadow my flesh ..." It stretched out its neck, twisted and turned to show the glistening texture of its skin. "Am I beautiful? Or do I carry beauty with me, distinct and separate, as a thing that will outlast me? A thing I only came to build by gnawing habit. That I could never again reproduce. A thing that I could not help but build if I was to keep living."
The snail let out a breath. "Well, yes," it said. "It is quite useful, I suppose. I retreat into it for shelter, and for comfort, and it is smooth and well-formed against my skin. I could not live without it. But, you see -
"I have a cousin, a slug," the snail said, its voice trembling. "And we are otherwise alike, in form and capacity and function. My foot is no less strong than hers, I can climb and crawl just as well. Except - except I carry everything I own with me.
"And she survives, just as well as I do, and finds comfort and shelter and - and that sense of safety, all without a shell to hide her.
"That's all usefulness is, isn't it," said the snail, and shrunk back, resigned, disappearing backwards inch by inch until only the shell was visible. "It's everything we've accumulated that we can no longer live without."
