You Will be Found by Ella Chen (17, California)

Fluffy cotton balls have stopped dripping from above and retreated to the sides for the sun to shine. The tiny puddle of fresh rainwater in the middle of the unevenly paved path reduces to a darkened patch on the cement, leaving behind only an earthy scent that permeates the air. Stripped of its bath, the snail draws its head up in slow motion, scoliosis cured. Antennae perking straight up, he scans the gigantic world around him like a lighthouse looking for a lost ship in the blue abyss. Except the snail is lost in the lethal dosage of a sunbath. To the left, the snail picks up the quiet odor of a friend. The safest way home is to trail a road already taken. ​

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Trailing its friend’s slimy footsteps, the snail piggy-backs to conserve enough mucus to make it back to the comfort of the damp: under logs, stones, and bushes in the chocolate-cake-like soil. Like geese flying in a v-shaped formation for their winter migration, the snail glides the path of its friend in order to trail a long meter, millimeter by millimeter, back to its shadows and protection. With the help of friends and family, the impossible becomes possible: a presentation becomes less daunting, a two-week centralized quarantine becomes more bearable. If the weather is unusually dry, the snail will retract into its shell of clouds, and close its eyes for up to three years. During this time, its body will secrete mucus to keep it alive under such silent and unforgiving weather: Survival.

The snail’s shell spirals as time ticks and it makes a new friend, settles under a new tree, crawls out into the open for its first waterfall of rain. Its shell, sun umbrella of a refuge. But when broken, it is never to be repaired. Memory box, lost. Shield against enemy fire, lost. And it can’t seek help can’t warn can’t escape fast enough. Throwback to when your blabbermouth best friend leaked your secret to the whole school, leaving you forever exposed — naked. Without the wild whinny of a horse, yappy yap of a Yorkipoo, flappy flop of a fish, or even the bumbling buzz of a bee, the snail is voiceless. Unheard. Unseen. Unloved. Clouds obscure the sun, dimming the sky dimming the world. Spotted shells brown and soft slug translucent sink and blend into the shadows of the earth. Disappeared. Invisible. Under a dried, yellowed, crumbly crunchy leaf rests the snail, staring aimlessly outwards. 

A dog jogs merrily by, so fast it’s merely a blur. Uneven footsteps, panting, breathe in, breathe out. A girl moves her chubby legs as fast as she can, arms outstretched, brows furrowed. As she turns the corner and sees her silly dog with its puppy eyes, her eyes sparkle stars. Running even faster than before, she throws herself at her dog, pulling it close towards her heart, loving it hard. Who will love the snail? Who will look for the snail? Maybe a French chef. But then it will die—escargot. 

It doesn’t matter how many protests she attends, how much she screams her throat dry, how many tears she sheds, laws still pass left and right. She is invisible, mute. One second her younger sister can get an abortion, the next, illegal. Like how one second the snail is seeing the world for the first time, the next, dead. Crack. Unloved. Lying on her bed, she stares blankly into her screen. Read 6:47 PM. These simple words shouldn’t hurt that much, but they can create such a frozen earthquake sometimes. We have all felt like the snail. Small, overlooked, insignificant. And we pretend that it’s okay. But deep down in our beating hearts, overriding whatever our sneaky brains may tell us, we long to be the dog. To be looked for when lost. To be showered with love, friendship, and affection. To be found.