[Creative Nonfiction] The Heart of a Snail

Read the winning entry for our week of November 24, 2024 prompt, Kindness.

The Heart of a Snail
by

Calla Conway

It gets hot where I live– brutal, blinding. It’s not for the faint of heart come summer, especially if your squishy heart is wrapped in calcium and protein, relying on moisture to sustain. Mine isn’t that vulnerable but soft enough to walk around the snails frying in the California sun.

“Grandpa thinks you’re on mushrooms,” my mother told me on the phone. My propensity for collecting vulnerable gastropods by the highway raised his bushy eyebrows. Indeed, it was the gooms, he reasoned. He hadn't considered how tetchy a soft heart could be (in this hard world, no less). Surely it was psychoactive.

But it wasn’t. I was used to my pulpy heart being mistaken in a world that admires the hardness of your shell.

One day, I found a drying snail on the pavement. It was shriveled with a crusty layer where all the squish should be. I put it in my fanny pack, spinning on my heel for home, careful not to jostle my new, possibly dead, friend. It sure looked dead. But that day, hope had more to gain than reason.

Back home, I fetched my orchid spray bottle and lightly misted my small pal. Nothing. I did it again, and—-oop! There it was: signs of life. The withered creature began moving against its shell as water droplets absorbed into its fleshy skin. I gave it another spritz, watching as it worked to pop its peculiar face, adorned with alien-like antennas, out of its exterior.

One point for Hope.

Kale the Snail was put into Tupperware, which I poked holes into. I adorned their home with leaves, flowers, and berries. A small water bowl, too. I was committed to rehabilitation, to being a haven for this tired being. They were fighting an uphill battle against unnatural elements, scorching on hot cement where the soil should be.

Unfortunately, I was ill-equipped. I’d miscalculated my abilities. Kale died. I was crushed. I kicked myself for thinking life could be fair, even once, for the innocence of a snail.

But squishy hearts aren’t that faint.

I researched, I learned. All a crushed snail needs is downtime, away from the sun, in a cool environment. Calcium helps. I ordered a cuddle fish bone. I bought a glass terrarium and created structures for climbing. The next snail I found was half-clobbered, shell-caved in, dehydrated. But the fight wasn’t over. Water, rest, and rehabilitation. This time, my snail friend grew strong. Their blobby flesh was plump. They took large gummy bites from strawberries. If a snail could ever smile, I think my new friend would. Eventually, I set them free.

“They’re dying, honey,” my mother continued, egging on my grandpa’s psychedelic accusations. That’s okay, I reasoned. We all are. We’re all battling within structures we were born into, trying to stay soft in a world that wants us hard. It helps to have a snail friend to remind you that rest is suitable when it gets hard. There’s time to mend a squishy heart.

A Note From Our Guest Judge,

Natalie Lue

“The Heart of a Snail” grabbed a hold of my heart with its vivid imagery of the persistence of kindness and not giving up on people and things, including ourselves, even when others don’t get it. The author does a really good job of conveying the intensity and brutality of the terrain and conditions the snails face and (and how these have changed), mirroring the difficulties in which many humans find themselves in emotionally and mentally, too. This beautiful piece felt like a reminder not just about rest but making sure that we put in the effort with ourselves even when maybe some things don’t seem to have worked or it feels like there’s no point.

About

Calla Conway

Calla Conway is a short story writer and poet living in San Diego, CA. Her work has been published in Roi Fainéant, The Closed Eye Open, and Tidepools.

This piece was written in response to the prompt Kindness.