Tag Archives: ants

Thinker Ants (revision)

Once upon a time, a worker ant was ordered to bring good things back to its colony. While going for a walk one day, the ant saw a dead caterpillar. It was much too big to bring back, so the ant chewed off a piece of the caterpillar to bring some food back to his queen. The ant had seen living caterpillars before, and it began to wonder about death.

“What is death?” the little ant wondered. “What would it be like? What happens after?”

On his way back home, the ant came across a large anteater. It was stomping around, waving its elephantine truck through the air.

“Hey!” the ant chirped. “What’s death like?”

The anteater stopped and blinked at the little ant. “Why? Would you like to find out?”

“I’m just curious,” said the little ant, peering out from below a piece of what was once a caterpillar.

The anteater paused for a moment, confused by the little ant. “Death isn’t something you should go around asking about, you know?”

“I’m a worker ant. It’s my job to bring back things to the nest.”

The anteater sighed. “Including death?”

“I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s good.”

“If that’s what you want,” the anteater shrugged. He followed the little ant back to its nest and licked all the little ants up.

The End.

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under Flash Fiction

Walking in a Straight Line

“Dude. Ballerinas get mad chicks.” Teek takes a hit and passes the blunt to me. We are watching some muscular dancer doing handstand push-ups and backflips off a fence. “Showoff,” he says, blowing out a curtain of smoke. “Makes us normal guys look bad.” He offers me the roach.

“I don’t think they’re called ballerinas if they’re guys.” I put it to my lips.

“Then what? Ballerinos?” We laugh like idiot. If the cops come, Teek will just eat the blunt. It is something he does well, even with a bit of pride. Heck. Dude does it for the Hell of it sometimes. Says he hates to waste even speck of good weed.

“Hey, fucking Bruce Lee chewed cannabis,” he informed me one time.

“Yeah, but he didn’t eat the whole blunt! Is the wrap even edible?”

“If you can smoke it, you can eat it,” he had shrugged then, as if those word were the only truth in the world.

“How’s Dizzie been?” he asks me as the ballerino jumps into his mini cooper with his buddies. I drag too deep and burn my throat. Teek’s in 11th grade with my sister. He has a thing for her.

“She’s cool,” I say, then correct myself since, as her little brother, I certainly do not think she is cool. “I mean, she’s all right… I guess.”

“She’s more ‘n a’ight! Girl’s got an ass that won’t quit! Ha haaa!” he laughs, nodding his head. “But no offense, man. No offense.” He punches me in the shoulder, like he’s just joking. He knows I don’t like it when he talks about my sister like that, but I keep quiet. Teek’s four years older than me. I’m surprised someone as cool as him would even bother with me. Then again, I pay him for the weed…

“She’s crazy, you know,” I tell him. He takes the roach from my hand.

“Seamus, Seamus, Seamus,” he blows out a little smoke, examines the tiny nub of weed between his fingers like it’s holding out on him. He shrugs. “All women are crazy, my man. That’s just their nature. But the really crazy ones also put out like crazy. You’ll figure it out when you’re older.” He pushes last bit of the roach into my hand, gives it a fist-pound, then exits the scene in his dealer mobile, the gold Mazda, maybe to go deal to some other kids or hang out with people his age. Whatever.

I stare at the roach burning out in my palm. With no one to give it any air, the cinders die out. I look to see if anyone was around, then I push the thing to my tongue. It tastes like ash. I spit and almost throw it into the grass. Instead, it finds its way into my pocket. I don’t know why. I guess it made me feel cool. The cops wouldn’t bother hassling a white kid before the sun goes down, but I should get going. The ballet’s over and my parents will be expecting me back soon. I told them I was going to see some friends perform at the dance. They probably think I’m a fag, or that I have friends. They don’t know anything about me.

I take my first step, but my feet feel like lead. My breath catches and I try using my hands to pull my leg up. No use.

Of course that won’t work. Use your leg muscles, a distant voice tells me. I know it is my own voice, but it sounds like it is coming from behind a curtain. It takes me a little, but I figure out which muscles in my thighs cause my leg to lift. One foot in front of the other. Walking in a straight line is harder than you think. I’m already a relaxed person, but I get catatonic sometimes when I smoke. My sister’s the only who knows. She smokes too, but she’s also insane. She says I should stop before I slip into a coma.

I scratch my head at the line of ants, going about their daily routines. Ants have to be the busiest little bugs on this entire planet. I am astounded. Or I must have been, since I’d forgotten to close my mouth. The ants all work in a straight line, moving back in forth to feed their colony and their queen—all except one little one. It looks lost and I felt sorry for it. I put my shoe down to turn it around and it walks right under where my toes curve up. I find a small twig and put it down in his path and he walks right around it. But that was sexist of me. It could very well be a lady ant, too.

“Hey,” I say to him/her. “You’re going the wrong way. Why would you want to leave your home?” But as soon as I ask the androgynous ant that question, I think maybe I know. I can’t count the times I’ve wanted to just pick a direction and just wander off, but then I’d probably starve or get mugged and killed. I heard ants from other colonies will just bite each other’s heads off. It’s a harsh world: much easier to let your mind wander than to actually do it. I think about whether I can take care of her (maybe I’ll stick with “her;” she crazy like a girl), but I don’t know what ants eat, really, or if they really can survive without their colony. Maybe she’s old and going off to die alone, like what wolves do (then again, I relate with him so much that I might just be more comfortable calling her “him”). I don’t want to kill him by taking him home. I’m sure he’ll figure it out. I step past the ant, leaving it behind, careful not to step on its family in the process.

I put Gavin DeGraw’s “Chariot” on my ipod and chill for a while with one earbud hanging loose and the other caressing my eardrum. I’m ready to start walking again. This time I know which muscles to use and it’s easier to start. As I walk home, I think about when I was a little kid. I used to daydream all the time. I remember one time I yelled at some kids for squishing an anthill. They seemed a little guilty at first, but then I guess they thought better of it. Stephen and Nick spent years tormenting me after that. They’d call me names like “Shayla” and “semen” that made me curse being half-Irish and having a ridiculously patriotic mother. Maybe all women are crazy like Teek says.

But why am I thinking about these things? Home is just a block away, a block away. My ipod shuffles to Modest Mouse’s “Float On.” And I do.

By the time I get home, I’ve got Jello Biafra screaming in my ear. I turn off my ipod. I’ll head straight for shower and bed. I’m not feeling well, I have to tell myself. I’m not feeling well.

Dizzie opens the door. I hold my stomach, ready to repeat my rehearsed lines.

“Are you high?” She looks like I brought home a dead skunk in my teeth.

“No. I’m not feeling—I’m just dizzy.” My sister does not think this is funny. I, on the other hand, start giggling into my hands.

“Shhh. Shut up. Do you know what Mom and Dad do when they find their little baby high?”

Other people’s thoughts scared me. Other people’s thoughts shut me up. I hadn’t thought about other people’s thoughts. It frightened me when she called me “their little baby.” That’s a big responsibility to live up to and I hate it.

“Who’s been selling you weed? Where—Teek, that goddamn motherfucking cocksucking Nazi slut! Am I right? It’s him, right? I’m going to rape that fucker with a tire iron!”

I’m a bit dismayed that I’m so predictable, that there’s only one person that could possibly be my dealer. Am I that see-through? “No! It’s not—”

Fuck that motherfucker! I’ll fucking kill that fucker fifty times before he realizes I fed him his own cock through his asshole!”

I let her vent a little while longer. Sis had a temper sometimes, though I’ve rarely seen her quite this angry. “He wanted me to tell you he said ‘hi,’” I finally say, but I find it’s the wrong thing to say. She puts me in a headlock and drags me upstairs.

I can hear my dad from the kitchen. “Seamus? Is that you?” Then my mom: “How was the ballet?”

“He’s in the bathroom!” Dizzie yells, almost squeezing my head right off. She tosses me into my bedroom and slams the door behind her.

“Really, Seamus. What was going through your head? Why would you do something like that? You’re not even in high school, kid.”

I feel small, tiny, minuscule. Like an ant.

“At least you’re not actually going to watch ballets and musicals in your spare time,” she rubs the area around her eyebrow piercings. “Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do, Shemp.” That’s Dizzie’s nickname for me. “You’re going to take a shower, go down to the kitchen, act natural… and there’s a plate of leftovers in the fridge. We had porkchops. Do not eat anything else. Just dinner. Then bed. Understand.”

She’s talking too fast but I nod. “Why are you helping me out like this?”

She looks at me like I’m retarded or something. “I’m your big sister. You act like I’m going to bite your head off or something.”

“Well—” I consider telling her about the ants.

“You know what? I don’t care. Don’t eat everything. Shower and change. Now!” She kicks me in the butt so I go hurdling into my bathroom.

“Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Watching a movie. Something boring.”

“Oh.”

I turn on the fan, then I peel off my clothes, getting my shirt caught around my face and my pants caught around my ankles, but they come off and I guess that’s the important part. I almost forget the pot I have in my pocket. I wonder again if I should eat it to get rid of the evidence. Maybe flush it? But I really want to keep it, kind of as a keepsake. Something about this day has already made me feel nostalgic. I take a picture of it with my phone and then take a picture of me looking like I’m about to toss it in my mouth. Happy that I’ve recorded the day, I feel better about flushing the burnt out roach.

The water shooting from the shower nozzle feels like a million different sensations balled up into one, so that I can’t distinguish one sensation from the other. After a while, I don’t even try. I’ve probably already been here for a while just staring at the floor. But how long? Could be five minutes. Could be fifty. Time gets all distorted in the shower, which is probably why I’m always late for school. I take my loufa (Mom loves these things) and scrubs some fruity-smelling gel on my skin. When I get to sudsing up my crotch, I get a little too friendly. “No,” I tell my hands. Bad hands. I’ve already done enough today to make me feel guilty without filling the drain with my spunk on top of it all. Maybe tomorrow. I turn the water a bit colder to rinse off then I reach blindly for a towel. The world outside the shower is cold and lonely, but at least I have my towel. I feel a little like the curtain is finally lifting.

Kitchen scene: Mom gives me a kiss on the head. Dad is sighing and looking listless. It must have been a sad movie.

“What did you guys watch?” I ask, trying to sound normal. At least, I think I sound normal.

The Darjeeling Limited. It was a really weird movie. I don’t know if I’d watch it again,” she’s in a good mood for some reason. “Your father liked it, though.”

The giant Italian sighs delicately. “Yeah. It was really good. Just so sad, though.”

“Hon, it was a comedy.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be sad.”

My mom rolls her eyes. “We just had leftover porkchops tonight, Seamus. You want me to heat up a plate?”

“Sure, mom. Thanks.” A perfect act. She’ll never suspect.

“Are you all right. Your throat sounds a little hoarse.”

“Oh, uh. I’m not feeling—I’m not feeling well today.”

“Well, you’d better get some sleep after you eat. That’s the best thing if you think you’re getting sick.”

“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.”

“So, how was the ballet?”

“Good. Good.” I pause for a moment, thinking of the ballerino king. “It was A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The costumes were really well done.”

Mom and Dad exchange looks. I cringe. They think I’m gay. Well, yeah, I guess it’s better than the truth. Dizzie walks into the kitchen, giving me something between a worried look and the stink eye. I pour some milk. “You want some milk, Diz?” She gives me the stink-eye and grabs juice instead.

I cut into my porkchops and I realize I could eat ten thousand of these things. I can hear the meat bounce of my throat and it echoes in my ears. Life is good.

1 Comment

Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XVII

Arson

They all died in a fire I started. Charred bones scratch at my dreams most  nights. Terror sweats. Indigestion. Gray hairs. My body’s tearing itself apart from the inside.

*   *   *

When I was little, I liked to burn ants with a magnifying glass. When I got older, I realized that those ants were going home to their families. When I got older still, I realized that ants don’t actually have a family unit in the traditional sense. They’re simply workers produced by a queen. It occurs to me now that the only reason people don’t go around stepping on ants is because it’s beneath them.

*    *    *

Have you ever seen a meadow burn? Flowers and leaves wilt like old cabbage. The fire feeds on death like a meth addict. I, too, have a problem. I’m a pyromaniac. I can’t stop building fires. I’d always been careful, tiny fires where I’d dug out around them, surrounded it with rocks. When I tried to stop, cold turkey, I think I went a little insane. I had to stop smoking, too. It was too much temptation. Then it happened. One windy day, walking through the hills, and I find a lighter. That’s all it takes to commit arson–one windy day. The wonderful thing about fire is that any traces I may have left for the police have likely been burned away. Fire burns indiscriminately. It doesn’t care whether you’re person or a flower or an ant.

*   *   *

I can’t help but feel for those who lost their lives as a result of my carelessness. I’ve tried to blame them, tell myself that they should have left their houses sooner, the damn idiots. But it’s my fault. Only me. I drink pepto like water. Ironically, it’s wreaking havoc on my stomach. I don’t care. Not like ants, those people had families, loved ones. Even if they didn’t, it was wrong. I’ve tried to throw away that lighter a thousand times…

5 Comments

Filed under FEATHERTON II, Flash Fiction