Bartholomew, now feeling approximately the size and consistency of an overfilled waterbed thanks to his unfortunate aquatic escapade, managed to deflate slowly but surely after being snagged by the thorny bush. The experience left him feeling… waterlogged and vaguely prickly. He made a mental note to avoid all liquids larger than a dewdrop in the future. His existence was becoming a complex tapestry of avoidance.

  His journey, if it could even be called that, continued at a snail’s pace (though, to be fair, he was probably slower than most snails). He spent his days wobbling through the undergrowth, constantly scanning his surroundings for potential allergens and predators. The forest, which in fantasy novels was often depicted as a place of wonder and magic, felt to Bartholomew like a giant, green obstacle course designed specifically to irritate him.

  He encountered strange creatures – fluffy, six-legged rodents that seemed utterly indifferent to his presence; birds with iridescent plumage that chirped melodies he couldn’t comprehend; and lumbering insects with far too many legs for comfort. None of them seemed particularly interested in eating him, which Bartholomew considered a small victory. However, none of them offered assistance or even a polite nod of acknowledgement, which he found rather rude.

  One particularly frustrating afternoon, while attempting to navigate a field of what appeared to be giant, luminous mushrooms (which, thankfully, didn’t seem to trigger any allergic reactions, though they did emit a rather unsettling purple glow), Bartholomew stumbled upon a small, unassuming cave hidden behind a curtain of moss.

  Hesitantly, he oozed towards the entrance. Caves, in his limited fantasy novel knowledge, could be dangerous lairs of fearsome beasts. However, they also sometimes housed wise hermits or, dare he hope, someone with a cure for being a sentient, allergic slime. The latter seemed about as likely as Brenda from accounts winning the lottery, but Bartholomew was desperate.

  The interior of the cave was surprisingly dry and smelled faintly of… something vaguely alchemical and slightly burnt. In the center of the cavern, illuminated by the flickering light of a small fire, sat an elderly man with a long, white beard that reached his knees and spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He was stirring a large cauldron that bubbled with a viscous, unsettlingly green liquid. Various strange ingredients – dried herbs, glowing crystals, and what looked suspiciously like a severed tentacle – lay scattered around him.

  The old man seemed utterly absorbed in his concoction, muttering to himself in a language Bartholomew didn’t recognize.

  “Now, a pinch of powdered griffin feather… no, wait. That was for the hair growth potion. Blast it all, these look so similar…”

  Bartholomew, mustering all his courage (which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot in his current gelatinous state), oozed further into the cave, making as much of a non-slimy noise as possible. This amounted to a series of quiet, wet squelches.

  The wizard (for surely this eccentric individual with the bubbling cauldron was a wizard) finally looked up, his eyes widening slightly as he noticed the emerald blob that had silently entered his abode.

  “Well, now,” he said, peering at Bartholomew over his spectacles, which seemed to magnify his already wide eyes. “What have we here? A… rather green visitor.”

  He leaned closer, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “Never seen one quite like you before. Are you some sort of… particularly mobile moss?”

  Bartholomew tried to communicate his predicament. He gurgled, he wobbled, he even attempted to gesture with a pseudopod that briefly extended from his main mass before retracting awkwardly.

  The wizard watched this display with a mixture of curiosity and mild bewilderment. “Fascinating,” he mused. “The way you… undulate. And those… bubbly noises. Are you trying to communicate?”

  He leaned even closer, cupping a hand to his ear. Bartholomew tried again, putting all his mental energy into forming a coherent thought and projecting it outwards through a series of increasingly frantic gurgles.

  “Re… in… car… nated… slime… al… ler… gies…”

  The wizard blinked. Then he blinked again. He straightened up, stroking his long beard thoughtfully. “Reincarnated as a… slime, you say?” he repeated slowly, as if trying to decipher a particularly complex riddle. “By the beard of Merlin! That’s a new one. Usually, it’s heroes or… well, occasionally particularly unlucky turnips. But a slime?”

  He circled Bartholomew slowly, peering at him from every angle. “And… allergies, you say?” He gestured vaguely at Bartholomew’s currently smooth form (he’d thankfully recovered from the floral incident). “To what, precisely?”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Bartholomew tried to list them, which resulted in a series of increasingly agitated gurgles, each one representing a different tormentor: the itchy flowers, the metallic sword, the gritty soil, the inflating water.

  The wizard listened intently, nodding occasionally as if he understood perfectly. “Ah, yes, the common slime ailments,” he said knowingly. “The floral rash, the metallic shivers, the… earthy grittiness, and of course, the dreaded osmotic inflation. Classic.”

  Bartholomew was taken aback. This strange man seemed to understand! Hope, a feeling he hadn’t experienced since before the rogue gnome incident, began to bubble within his gelatinous core.

  “Tell you what, little fella,” the wizard continued, his eyes twinkling with a sudden spark of inspiration. “I’ve been working on a rather experimental potion. Supposed to cure all sorts of… well, ailments. Mostly magical hiccups and the occasional case of misplaced limbs. Haven’t quite got the dosage right yet, though.”

  He gestured towards the bubbling cauldron. The green liquid within shimmered ominously.

  “Interested in being a… volunteer?” he asked, his gaze expectant.

  Bartholomew considered his options. On one hand, this was a complete stranger offering him an untested potion. It could turn him into something even worse than an allergic slime. He could sprout tentacles, or start speaking in rhyming couplets, or… well, the possibilities were terrifyingly endless.

  On the other hand, what was the alternative? Continue his existence as a perpetually itchy, lemon-scented blob, constantly in fear of being eaten by goblins or inflated by puddles? The thought was equally unappealing.

  With a mental sigh (which translated into a particularly melancholic gurgle), Bartholomew wobbled forward, indicating his willingness to participate in this potentially disastrous experiment.

  The wizard beamed, revealing a surprising number of surprisingly yellow teeth. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Now, let’s see… just a dash of moonpetal, a sprig of giggling nettle… and perhaps a whisper of dragon’s breath. Or was that for the invisibility serum?” He scratched his beard, looking momentarily lost in thought.

  After a few more moments of rummaging through his collection of bizarre ingredients, the wizard ladled a generous amount of the viscous green concoction into a small, chipped ceramic dish. He presented it to Bartholomew with a flourish.

  “Bottoms up… or rather, bottoms… in?”

  Bartholomew cautiously oozed towards the dish and, with a strange slurping sound, absorbed the potion into his gelatinous form. It tasted… vaguely of mint and despair.

  For a few moments, nothing happened. Bartholomew waited with bated… slime? He didn’t really have lungs, so the concept of bated breath was purely metaphorical. He just wobbled expectantly.

  Then, a faint tingling sensation spread through his being. He began to glow with a soft, emerald light, the same color as his slimy form. The light intensified, becoming almost blinding. The wizard shielded his eyes with a gnarled hand, muttering in astonishment.

  “By the stars… it’s working! Or… something is certainly happening.”

  Then, Bartholomew began to shrink. His gelatinous mass contracted, the emerald light fading as his form solidified. The wobbling ceased. The slimy texture vanished.

  In a puff of slightly sulfuric-smelling smoke that made the wizard cough dramatically, Bartholomew Buttercup was standing in the cave again, his tweed trousers slightly damp and his hair slightly singed, but undeniably human. He blinked, wiggled his fingers, and took a tentative step. He felt… solid. Gloriously, wonderfully solid.

  He looked down at his hands, turning them over in disbelief. No translucent green. No itchy bumps. Just his own, slightly grubby accountant’s hands.

  “Well, now,” the wizard said, looking utterly surprised, his spectacles slightly askew. “That… actually worked. Though I think I might have added a bit too much… ‘essence of stable digestive system.’ That sulfurous smell is a bit potent.”

  Bartholomew, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, could only manage a weak, slightly hoarse, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it, my boy,” the wizard replied, already turning back to his cauldron, which was now bubbling with a rather alarming shade of purple. “Just a little bit of experimental magic. Always fascinating to see the… unexpected results. Now, about this potion that turns people into garden gnomes…”

  Bartholomew, however, had had quite enough of other worlds and experimental magic for one lifetime (or rather, one afterlife and a brief stint as a sentient blob). He politely excused himself, his legs feeling strangely unsteady after his prolonged period of limblessness.

  “I, uh, I really should be going,” he stammered, backing towards the cave entrance. “Important… accounting matters to attend to.”

  The wizard barely glanced up from his bubbling concoction. “Right, right. Garden gnomes won’t transfigure themselves, you know. Do come back if you ever find yourself… de-humanized again!”

  Bartholomew didn’t need to be told twice. He stumbled out of the cave, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. The forest suddenly seemed less menacing, the air less itchy. He took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet and the distinct lack of slimy residue.

  He had no idea where he was or how to get back to his beige existence, but one thing was certain: he was no longer Bartholomew Buttercup, the unremarkable accountant turned unremarkable slime. He was Bartholomew Buttercup, the unremarkable accountant who had briefly been a sentient, allergic slime and had somehow, miraculously, become human again. And that, he thought, was a story worth… well, maybe not telling Brenda from accounts. She’d probably just ask if he’d filed his quarterly expenses.

  He started walking, the direction unimportant. All that mattered was putting as much distance as possible between himself and bubbling cauldrons, experimental potions, and the lingering scent of sulfur. He just hoped, wherever he ended up, they had a decent cup of Earl Grey and absolutely no rogue garden gnomes. And perhaps, just perhaps, a good antihistamine. Just in case. You never knew what strange flora lurked around the next corner in a world where accountants could become sentient blobs.