Gloopy Girl

– 0 –

Gloopy girl spills over the ground, wet and watery like a wave she rolls, dripping. She spills from one place to the next, folding over a rock, a stone, a hill. Tickled by a crawling—, she giggles, playing with the vibration on her finger. Falling back toward the soil, she scoops up a fat mess of a mud ball that barely holds together. Biting lip, she breathes at the mud ball, slapping it this way and that, smacking and poking it, she floats alo—ow!

A flatness now throbs on her head, misshapen and hard. 

She frowns. 

Thwacked Thing that caused the throb, what is this odd thing?

Face crinkled, she looks closer. 


There’s something inside the Thing.

– 1 –



One-one, zero-one. 

– 0 –

What is this something? A pattern? A name? It must be a pattern—just look at the shape of it—what is the shape of it? Straight but angled and edge-ridden. 

How does one make an edge?

Gloopy girl grabs the soil. Pulling up, it slurps down. 

Pull-slurp, pull-slurp, pull-slurp, Pull-thot. 

This isn’t working. 

Girl looks again at Pattern; she giggles. 

A silly line of zeros and ones. 

But a sadness twists behind the less serious line. A bored, monotonous sadness of pulsing zeros and ones. 

She turns to next Thing in a row (all aligned).

Is each a day dream? (She knows a lot about daydreams.)

But there is an order to these dreams which she does not know, and a sadness—a bored sigh, a hard exhale, screaming between zeros and ones. 

She moves to the next and the next. Then she sees…  

– 1 –


Bow, chop, drop, a Thing. 

Bow, chop, drop, a Thing (I sigh). 

Bow, chop, drop, a Thing.

I stop and bang my head against the Thing. 

All day long another Thing. 

(She rolls behind…)

Another-Ai! Squint and frown. 

What is this gloopy…gloopy girl? She melts the ground; there are no bounds? Where are the bounds? There must be bounds. And borders, edges, angles, sounds. Sharp, sharp sounds with borders, edges, angles, bounds. This gloopy girl, she smiles…  Kapow! 

A Thing…it just exploded now. 

Hard shards scattered all over the soil. Jags and crags and a lizard?! Foiled!

It moves and hisses, thrashes and bends; idea freed, it now defends. 


But wild. No zeros. No ones. 

Panic. Panic. Panic. No zeros! No ones! 

No angles, no edges, no lines, no bounds.

Panic smash-stumble-crunch. 

I’ve already run.

 – 0 –

Back in the dust gloopy girl kneels down. It litters the ground, the dead, shattered Thing. She plucks a shard from her arm; the blood screams, how it screams! 

Shut with palm! Shut with palm! Stop the scream, oh-oh-one.  

No more patterns, no more pictures; shards melt away in the mud. 

Gloopy girl looks around, and she sees only rolls. Rolls and waves, waves and rolls. Into herself she folds. 

She folds and folds and folds. 

Tuck away, tuck away, pull it tight, pull it taut. Leave no flaps, leave no folds (all that’s loose feels pain).

Pull it tight, pull it taut, ne’er again, ne’er again. 

But gloopy girl she still is, so she’s never quite taut; still feeling, still seeing, can’t remember nor forget. 

Time passes; she crusts, the weird lump in the mud. A cracked cave filled with dust. Dust and rust, dust and


Too much dust. 

In time, she stretches. 

Crinkle crack.

How long has it been? 

The arm, it still throbs.

Rub creek crack, rub creek crack.

How now to begin? 

She looks back—ruins there. Things are crumbling away. Shadows, echoes and crumbs, dull and dead, dry and bare. 

She staggers; she wanders.

Slow and sticky she rolls. 

Gloop-glop-glib. Gloop-glop-glib. 

Time passes (it passes), so sticky she rolls. 

Gloop glop glib. Gloop glop glib.

Plop crack thud; crusty girl drops down. Scabby girl—weary girl—digs her finger in her arm. 

Crinkle crunch, the scab lifts; pinching, pulsing, she pulls. It pops off, ooze congeals. 

Crinkle crunch toss. Another toss. A scab-filled row not a row. Is it an outline of a Thing long ago?

Long ago… 

A monster…a blob… who can tell? Who can know? 

She kicks it and screams, bows her head in her arms. 



Cough cough burp. 








– 1 –

A soft breath of wind. A gentle crumble now near.

Look away not away. Sadness, screams, I know well. 

Bow chop drop. Bow chop drop. Frown and…


Squeeze, squish, squelsh. Filling up, filling up…I can’t move. Can I breathe? Gloopy girl hugging tight, filling all, chuckle yelp. Chuckle ye—!?

She pulls back and we look. 

What is that? 

Terrified, mortified. It’s a drip. (Yes, a drip!)

No angles, no edges, no bounds and no lines. Shapeless, formless, why did I—run, time to run.


Face goes smack. I’ve been tripped in the dust. 

Girl’s foot stretched, drop in hands, bitten lip, eyes on dust mixed with drip. Hand smack here, hand smack there, orb takes shape, so do I. Edges melting, bounds are melting, angles seeing (they’re not mine). She tosses straight back! Bow chop drop. Chop drop burp. Smush and smelt, form and mold.

She shapes and I smooth, then I carve and she curves. One line here, two rounds there, fingers meet, arms entwined. Ordered Thing, Pulsing Thing (Oh this Thing!) with its bounds without bounds. We step back, our heads lean in, there’s a sigh as we look. We smile and we snivel… it is love; it is good. 

And that, Dear One, is how we formed the Universe.