Sorry to disturb you, leopard slugs. I see you’ve signed trails of snot across the rotting wood beams holding up your ceiling. No need to surrender your reign on this territory during our temporary stay. We’ll keep our distance—our species hasn’t proven immunity against tar-black mold smeared along damp concrete walls. We may bring down our compost to trade food scraps for castings. Say hi to the worms, if you’d like. They don’t bite. On laundry days, we’ll balance wet loads in our arms from washer to dryer to prevent stray socks from flopping in your sludge. When your fractured walls let in floods from heavy rain, we’ll roll up our pants and strip off our socks, slogging through puddles refusing to drain. You might hear your ceiling shake from late-night parties. Do not fear if we stumble down the stairs, drunkenly poking and prodding at your flesh. We’ll marvel at your presence, cupping you in sweaty palms. On rough days, one of us may retreat to your living quarters for a moment to ourselves. You may find us weeping. Please do not judge---I know you understand. Your dank kingdom offers a deep pause of reflection, a fleeting stretch of solitude. It is a pleasure to share this space.

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Bethany Cutkomp (she/her) is an emerging writer from St. Louis, Missouri. She graduated from Truman State University with a BFA in creative writing and now works at her hometown library. Her work is set to appear in Split Rock Review.