Marshmallow Monster

One should always carry marshmallows when walking in the woods. The peculiar advice popped into my head unbidden. I paid it little mind. My grandfather had often doled out such nonsensical tidbits. My feet moved along the narrow path, taking time to launch every rock and twig they encountered. My nose tickled as a friendly wind introduced itself to my face. The incorrigible breeze swirled around my shoulders, tugging my hair in a playful dance.

It was a beautiful day in the forest. The kind poets tend to ramble on about. Writing paragraph after paragraph of descriptive words like: crimson, vermillion, tangerine, and saffron. Overhead the branches giggled in the wind. I watched as a pumpkin-colored leaf zig-zagged its way to the dirt. A dark shadow in the middle of the path caught my eye. A few steps closer, I realized it was a creature.

It was the oddest-looking thing. A basketball-sized body covered in fuzzy gray fur. Its four scraggly legs bent awkwardly against themselves. Rough, scaley skin covered the squarish face. Tiny white teeth lined its snot by the hundreds. It was also quite possibly dead. I searched it patiently for any sign of life.

I have always considered myself somewhat of a scientist. I often dedicated my days to research, taking rare specimens home for further observation. My pockets proved to be the perfect place to store my collection of insects and spiders. Mother was not keen on this habit. Her searching hand had often led to a shriek in the laundry room.

My curiosity soon outweighed my trepidation. I picked up a long stick for poking. It seemed like the scientific thing to do. I darted out my hand and nudged the shadowed mass. A disgruntled yelp sent me reeling back several steps. A set of bright green eyes met mine, full of reproach. Sniffing me inquisitively, it cocked its head in greeting. I could tell from the stillness of its body that it was injured.

In a moment of unprecedented chivalry, I decided to lend it my aid. The practicality of this decision proved rather tedious. In a feat of engineering genius, I managed to fashion a sling from my jacket and the poking stick. With some coaxing and a careful hand, I transferred the creature to its temporary hammock.

I hurried back along the path towards home and my unsuspecting mother. A conscientious woman, she would never have allowed a wild animal in the house. Especially not one that looked like a meatball left in the fridge for too long. Out of concern for her feelings, I climbed through the back window.

In my opinion, nothing is more arduous than attempting to scale a flight of stairs quietly. My sock-clad feet took each step carefully, distributing my weight to avoid creaks. The last thing I wanted was to alert my mother. After several minutes, I reached the top floor undetected.

My room was on the left, at the end of the hall. I furtively inched towards it, trying to ignore the shuffling and growling noises from beneath my shirt. I released my pent-up breath. The closed-door provided some protection. I was not used to such adventures. I have always leaned toward the more academic, if not boring, side of life.

I rallied my courage for the task at hand. Whether lost in the woods or hiding a monster in your room, the steps to survival are as follows:

1. Build a shelter.

2. Find food.

Several minutes and a few choice words later, a makeshift bed stood in the corner of my room. Stepping back, I took a minute to congratulate myself on my cleverness. The two pillows formed a comfortable bed nestled beneath a haphazard canopy. Even the strange creature seemed appreciative of my efforts. Inspecting the bed thoroughly, it circled three times before curling into a ball with its eyes closed.

I turned my attention to step two - find food. I crept back down the stairs. My mother was in the kitchen, washing the dishes. Her back faced me as she swayed to the soulful tones of Kenny G. I snuck past her with unprecedented ease.

The pantry was full of neatly labeled glass jars, meticulously arranged in alphabetic order. My mother was dishearteningly health-conscious. Row upon row of oat bran, chia seeds, and other tasteless things lined the walls. I eyed them with despair. The strange animal was already injured; I could not subject it to the torture of my mother's cooking.

Luckily, my father had a sweet tooth. He has always kept a secret stash of sugary delights. His office was at the end of the hall. With my back flat, I crawled past my mother and into the darkened room. I pressed the door carefully, allowing it to shut without a sound. I scanned the room before turning my attention to the desk.

I winced as the drawer at the bottom let out a small moan. I attempted to open it again, but much slower. The portrait of my great-aunt Thelma glared at me with disapproving eyes. I felt a tinge of guilt. Then again, Aunt Thelma never approved of anything. I turned her frame upside down against the desk.

I hear a muffled thud from the hall. My mother’s footsteps momentarily turned me into stone. Her shadow darkened the crack beneath the door. My fingers locked onto the first sticky bag they could find. I stuff it into my waistband and hit the deck. I offered a silent plea to whichever saint watches over strange, moldy creatures from the woods.

The door opened as my mother sashayed her way through it. She hung my father’s favorite cardigan on the coat rack, giving it a ballroom dip before exiting the room. Unwilling to press my luck, I quickly made my escape.

Back in my bedroom, the creature stirred at my arrival. A previously unnoticed tail wagged in friendly greeting. I was glad to see it had not perished in my absence. A bit melodramatic, I know. What can I say? The thrill of the afternoon was getting to me. The beast was excited, running excited laps around my feet with a sharp yapping sound. It reminded me of a puppy. Except puppies did not usually have double-jointed legs like spiders.

“Are you hungry, boy?” I asked. I stared expectantly at it for a moment before shaking my head. As if finding a friendly monster in the woods wasn’t enough, now I expected it to talk.

I pulled my crumbled prize from behind my back. The creature showed even more enthusiasm, adding small hops and an unsettling backflip to its routine. I glanced down at the light weight in my hand—a plastic bag filled with white billowy clouds—marshmallows.

I tentatively offered one to the creature, who happily accepted. I pulled out a second treat and nearly said goodbye to my favorite finger. The animal snatched at it with greed. It guzzled the whole bag, chomping delightedly. The sound of its teeth gnashing and slurping will probably haunt me in my nightmares.

After finishing its supper, the moldy-looking creature retreated to its bed. I stooped down beside it, reaching out a hesitant hand. It nuzzled me with a wet snout. A sound somewhere between a kitten and a chainsaw emanated from its chest. I stroked the surprisingly soft fur.

My grandfather was an exceedingly wise man, full of sage advice. One should always carry marshmallows when walking in the woods. You never know when you might cross paths with a friendly marshmallow monster.