at as nails pace

This is a micronarrative I originally wrote for my friend Amy. I told it to Marco later, and since he liked it, I will leave it here and see who finds it.

The snails I knew

The snails I knew were on the mountain of Amiudal. This is where my father was born and where my aunts and uncles have homes today. My uncle Leo had a front yard with shrubberies and flowers. The snails would crawl up from the garden, onto the window ledges. There we would catch them, and put them on a flower pot to see their art of movement. Some years later, Leo got tired of mowing the lawn, so he filled it with stone and painted it green like cartoon grass. He is a very odd man, but loves me like a son. I still remember walking in on his bear-like naps, after an afternoon of chasing snails, to find him collapsed on the bed, clothed, as if he'd been shot by some great gun of sleep.