From the author: This story, which was published in the Spring 2012 issue of On Spec, you have to blame on my friend Robert Ursan, brilliant composer, amazing accompanist, musical-theatre director par excellence, and very funny man. He occasionally refers to The Sound of Music as The Sound of Mucus. And for some reason I thought, “The Squill are alive with the sound of mucus”...and this story was born.
DRIPPING VISCOUS GREEN SLIME onto the brushed-steel plates of the recreation room floor, the pulsating blue slug reared until it towered a full meter above my head. Three eyes the colour of old blood reared up on black stalks, somehow remaining focused on me even as they weaved like demented cobras in thrall to acid jazz played by a drunken snake charmer. Its mouth peeled open like a gaping wound.
Then came the ultimate horror.
It began to sing.
Oh, no. No!