UNLIMITED

Orion Magazine

What Slime Knows

“Nothing from nothing ever yet was born.”
— Lucretius, On the Nature of Things

IT IS SPRING in Houston, which means that each day the temperature rises and so does the humidity. The bricks of my house sweat. In my yard the damp air condenses on the leaves of the crepe myrtle tree; a shower falls from the branches with the slightest breeze. The dampness has darkened the flower bed, and from the black mulch has emerged what looks like a pile of snotty scrambled eggs in a shade of shocking, bilious yellow. As if someone sneezed on their way to the front door, but what came out was mustard and marshmallow.

I recognize this curious specimen as the aethalial state of , more commonly known as “dog vomit slime mold.” Despite its name, it’s not actually a mold—not any type of fungus at all—but rather a myxomycete (pronounced MIX-oh-my-seat), a small, understudied class of creatures that occasionally appear in yards and gardens as strange, Technicolor blobs. Like fungi, myxomycetes begin their lives as spores, but when a myxomycete spore germinates and cracks open, a microscopic amoeba slithers out. The amoeba bends and extends one edge of its cell to pull itself along, occasionally consuming bacteria and yeast and algae, occasionally dividing to clone and multiply itself. If saturated with water, the amoeba can grow a kind of tail that whips around to propel itself; on dry land the tail retracts and disappears. When the amoeba encounters another amoeba with whom it is genetically compatible, the two fuse, joining chromosomes and nuclei, and the newly fused nucleus begins dividing and redividing as the creature oozes along the forest floor, or on the underside of decaying logs, or between damp leaves, hunting its microscopic prey, drawing each morsel inside its gooey plasmodium, growing ever larger, until at the end of its life, it transforms into an aethalia, a “fruiting body” that might be spongelike in some species, or like a hardened calcium deposit in others, or, as with , grows into hundreds of delicate rust-colored stalks. As it

You’re reading a preview, subscribe to read more.

More from Orion Magazine

Orion Magazine1 min read
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
Few science fiction novels of the 1800s remain probable to a modern audience. We’ve explored space, probed deep underground, and have yet to be overrun by Martians. But only 5 percent of the ocean has been explored. This is what makes Jules Verne’s T
Orion Magazine1 min read
How Far the Light Reaches
In their essay collection, How Far the Light Reaches, Sabrina Imbler takes us on a deep dive to visit the bottom of the ocean. Starting with a childhood story of protest in a Petco that bleeds into a study of feral goldfish, Imbler weaves their own n
Orion Magazine10 min read
The Invention of Floods
NOT LONG AGO, I VISITED SORONG, a city growing in concrete. Sorong’s infrastructure boom makes the consequences of building with concrete clear: concrete causes floods. Water rolls along horizontal concrete (including asphalt) and splashes off vertic

Related