Tendrills are creatures with tendrils, or tentacles. They are soft balls of thin malachite tentacles, the size that an adult person can wrap their arms around one while each hands able to touch the elbow of the opposite arm. Malachite, the color between turquoise and emerald, has just the right amount of green to be rid of the psychedelic feeling that turquoise always gives, and just the right amount of blue to tune down the dazzles of emerald. Tendrills are soft bodied gems with emotions, they can connect with each other by reaching out a tentacle to the others and, much like human interaction, there are steps that the tentacle interaction goes through: the temptation of individual excited jittering, and the initiation with the testing touch, the one poke, flirty and aloof, and if no rejection was signed, the tentacle goes around and about, without too much lingering in one place, and if everything still goes smoothly then here’s the finally, the fully concentrated, intermingling of tentacles. Two balls merge into one, with movement like a giant, float-in-midair, digesting stomach. Then of course there’s the retreat and the leftover quivering. Like stomach acid, the drool from the mingle burns a small hole on the ground where it touches. We transform into tendrills sometimes. They exist in an outer conscious world, where physically is intensified because it channels straight into the source. Most people don’t remember being a tendrill. The experiences are rare and easily forgotten, like dreams that fall out of REM sleep. But I do. I remembered being a tendrill two nights ago. I was a tendrill and I reached out. It was nice, tendrill wise, I went through all the steps, and I’ve brunt holes on the ground. But now that I am awake in my human form, the memory of being a tendrill grosses me out. The texture, and the viscosity of things, of the space and of the connection built through tentacles, all have frothed and thickened into a bulge of node on my throat along my windpipe, cannot be gorged down or pushed up, and when I touch my neck I can feel that a ball, size of a large apple, is stuck in the middle. It doesn’t affect my life on a physical level, but it has been making me mentally ill. And I can do nothing about it. As a tendrill, I should have never put forth that one tentacle, I should have kept it nice and tight like an underripe little tendrill ball, kept it to myself like a good one would do.