Illustration: Spel Oner. Professional
friend, pixel pusher, medium destroyer,
superhero with a maniacal edge.
Karl Russell
The Rising
C
reeping barefoot through the darkened kitchen,
Jane felt the whisper of wetness against the ball of
her toes and tried to shift her weight, but it was
too late; the gelatinous mass gave with a ‘pop’ and
she felt it spread beneath her, lukewarm innards
squeezing between her toes like wet play-doh. The slugs were
back.
Standing crane-like on her untainted foot, she waited for
her eyes to adjust, watching their dim shapes gradually
develop against the lino-like blemishes on a spoiled
photograph. Navigating between them, she hopped to the
sink counter and pulled herself up to sit with her foot under
the tap. The drainer creaked under her weight, suggesting –
like she needed another reminder – that half an hour on the
exercise bike each night just wouldn’t cut it any more.
The water was icy, stinging her toes, but she couldn’t turn
the hot on without setting the pipes knocking in Lou’s room,
and she’d only just got him back down again. If he woke a
third time there’d be no settling him, so she endured the
numbing cold and scrubbed at the gunk between her toes until she was satisfied that they were clean. Then she killed the
water and sat there a moment longer, wondering what to do.
It was too late to text anyone, too early to get ready for the