How to Train Your Slime

By L. S. Popovich

Harold’s parents were allergic to most pets, but sometimes he brought animals home just to be sure. He made valiant efforts with kittens and puppies, and he tried a Gila monster on them that didn’t go over well.

He’d about given up hope when, early one morning after his high school let out for the summer, he came across a large lump of oozing slime in the park on his morning jog. It quivered with cuteness as he fondled its protuberant sacs of fluid.

Harold beamed. “I’ll call it Shirley.”

He pouted his lips and prodded it gently, and the pulsing mound crept slowly forward. It playfully oozed onto the grass and jiggled in response to his admiration. Grasping it carefully, he smoothed one of its amorphous flanks and weighed it with satisfaction.

It didn’t have a mouth, eyes, or even a face per se. But Harold was in love. When he tried stroking the slime, it gurgled. He scooped up as much of it in his arms as he could, turned it over, and decided it was a he.

He considered for some time as he walked home. I think I’ll go with Lexington, actually.

Back in his living room, Harold deposited his new pet on the rug and went to change clothes. There had been a few accidents along the way, and his shirt was soaked. It wasn’t until the washing machine sputtered and died that he realized the excretions were not washer-friendly.

Harold’s parents were horrified when they came home. Amid his protests, they flushed Lexington down the toilet. He sobbed at the bathroom door, remembering the goldfish of years past. Luckily, Lexington adapted well to the lukewarm water and did quite a number on the pipes before Harold finally retrieved him.

His parents’ ensuing attempts to squash, bludgeon, burn, stab, and microwave Lexington proved useless. He was immune to boiling, chlorine, bleach, hacksaws, and gunfire. And Harold’s heartbroken reaction showed them this was more than a passing attachment.

Finally, Harold’s parents moved him and his inseparable companion to the vacant guesthouse. Now Lexington could spread out without worrying about “staining the kitchen tile” or “eating the stove.”

Harold and Lexington spent all their free time together. Every morning, Lexington oozed over his food bowl and left a bowl-shaped imprint on the linoleum. Every night they sang duets like “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Cooing gurgles emanated from their window, leading to a local ordinance against “spine-chilling wails.”

Harold’s little mold nugget brought him endless joy. This is what parents must feel.

Twice a day, he took Lexington on walks. Usually, they got in a game of “fetch and dissolve.”

Slithering through the park, letting Lex piddle, and catching the pigeons filled his heart with warmth. The nearby screams and revolted looks didn’t even distract them.

At every opportunity, Harold introduced his jolly Slimykins to other pets. Soon a mosaic of dog-shaped imprints stained the grass.

When at home, Lexington constantly slid up the walls and left tracks across the ceiling. Time passed. Lexington grew and grew. Posters appeared on every lamp-post offering a reward for the “Unfriendly Neighborhood Slime.” Yet Harold’s love never wavered. He refilled the bowl-shaped imprint hundreds of times and reinforced the couch each time it buckled. Every day, he had a whole side of cow delivered to keep Lexington well-fed.

But one day, Lexington refused to gurgle out his half of “Living on a Prayer.”

“What’s gotten into you, Lex?” Harold frowned as the slime slumped into his bed.

Harold missed the days when Lexington would plop lovingly onto his head from the ceiling or chill with him in the hot tub. Suddenly, Lexington grew flakey, and his green sheen paled. Their binge-watching grew less and less frequent.

Dried husks started appearing on the staircase, along with iridescent puddles in the basement. Finally, one cold morning, Lexington gave a prolonged burble of affection and undulated no more.

Harold went back to his old routine as best he could, jogging away the sorrow. Next to where he’d found his companion so long ago, he erected a grave. Whenever he came to visit, he laid a T-bone steak on the gravestone in remembrance: Lex’s favorite.

“Oh, my little Swamp Thing,” he moaned, “I’ll always remember the good times.”

Years went by. The city lost its innocence as hordes commuted from the suburbs. Harold thrived in his own way, finally holding down a part-time job.

One morning, his jogging partner caught his elbow and pointed to a grassy slope. “What’s that?”

Harold turned. Something slithered to the other side. They jogged forward, crested the top, and saw the full scope of the park. Pulsing lights dotted the horizon.

Tears rushed to Harold’s eyes. He remembered now, with fondness, all the places Lexington had piddled. As they watched, hundreds—no, thousands—of slimes emerged from the glowing patches, scratching up dirt, overturning picnic baskets, enveloping sleeping children, and catching in the spokes of moving bicycles.

Alongside his friend, Harold dodged the fleeing crowds, following a detour to avoid rampant brushfires and scattered gunfire.

Near his neighborhood, Harold passed a small slime slowly burning a hole through a bench. With trembling hands, he picked it up.

“Shirley,” he whispered with a smile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L. S. Popovich lives in Denver and writes Science Fiction, Fantasy, Noir & Magical Realism. They have always been a cat person (a person who like cats, not a cat human hybrid). Their novel ECHOES FROM DUST is serialized in Bewildering Stories. They have always believed that at least one room of the house should be completely crammed with books.

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