HOME | DD

Description

Ants
by
Brad Horton

Ants march in a line, ants march in a line. Ants, and with them the determinations of ants (indomitable, unidirectional, unimpeachable), march in a line.

Nurse ants march in a line cradling precious eggs from the queen's chamber to the incubator. Babysitter ants, carrying their younger sisters' swollen and sightless and motionless pupal bodies from an overheated chamber to a cooler room, march in a line. Her Majesty's children must be well-tended if they are to join the ranks and drive the empire's machine.

Construction worker ants march in coming-and-going lines hauling single grains of soil from the lowermost excavation sites to the tunnel's entrance. As their shifts change, ants crawl over and past each other in the close little tunnels, their antennae touching in brief greeting as they march in a line.

Forager ants march in scouting lines as they browse for food among towering grass blades and sharp-edged leaves, over hard stones and gravel, up and down the soft, fuzzy stalks of monolithic wildflowers. Harvester ants march in a line towing gigantic seeds and pieces of fungus and bits of peat. Warrior ants bring down creatures twenty times their own size, swarming and biting and stinging until their prey is subdued and ready for cutting. Butcher ants march in a line, their prizes consisting of huge cuts of grasshopper meat and dead spider legs and beetle shells.

Guard ants stand at the door to the anthill, checking each returning Warrior and Scout to make sure she belongs, prepared to sting to death any who doesn't smell right. Cataloging ants march in a line to the food storage room, high and dry and spacious. Farmer ants march in a line to the food growing room, low and moist and close. The loyalty of Her Majesty's soldiers is fueled by their bountiful crops.

Scouting ants, each following the other and never questioning the course of their journey, march in a single-file line as they seek to expand Her Majesty's empire. They find cracks in windows and spaces under doors. They enter human houses and go straight to the cabinets, to the massive storehouses of food, guided by their keen senses of smell. They infiltrate the cereal, pancake mix, sugar, flour, crackers, potato chips, cookies. A few even drown blissfully in an unsealed jar of honey, their days of tireless labor finally rewarded as they sink spread-legged to the bottom of the sweet, sticky liquid that fills their abdominal spiracles and suffocates them to death.

Wayward ants are discovered and stamped, sprayed, trapped and poisoned. Her Majesty will never know of their sacrifice.

Soldier ants march in ranks and columns as they swarm the countryside, the momentum of their swelling, surging numbers inexorably driven by their loyalty to the queen.
Opposing ants march in equally massive lines against the advance of Her Majesty's army, fiercely defending their lands before falling to the overwhelming swarm. Loyal ants lock mandibles and jab stingers and tear limbs and heads from bodies, killing and dying for the sake of the expansion of Her Majesty's colony.

Remorseless ants march back to the anthill, carrying eggs and pupae from the captured dwellings of their fallen enemies. Stolen slave ants hatch from eggs and pupate into fully grown Workers, ready and willing to join the marching lines and serve their new queen with blind and unyielding loyalty.

Work-weary ants march on and on until the stiffness of age seizes their legs in a death grip and they collapse from utter exhaustion. Healthy, young ants march indifferently past the dying. They do not stop to help. But the old ones are content as they lay by the marching line and watch their sisters continue to drive the machine of Her Majesty's empire. Their limbs curl reflexively around them as their synapses begin to fail. Their antennae cease their twitching as they lay their heads against the stones of the earth, falling peacefully into the embrace of permanent sleep.

As one of them dies, ten more are born to take her place in the marching line.

Description

Ants
by
Brad Horton

Ants march in a line, ants march in a line. Ants, and with them the determinations of ants (indomitable, unidirectional, unimpeachable), march in a line.

Nurse ants march in a line cradling precious eggs from the queen's chamber to the incubator. Babysitter ants, carrying their younger sisters' swollen and sightless and motionless pupal bodies from an overheated chamber to a cooler room, march in a line. Her Majesty's children must be well-tended if they are to join the ranks and drive the empire's machine.

Construction worker ants march in coming-and-going lines hauling single grains of soil from the lowermost excavation sites to the tunnel's entrance. As their shifts change, ants crawl over and past each other in the close little tunnels, their antennae touching in brief greeting as they march in a line.

Forager ants march in scouting lines as they browse for food among towering grass blades and sharp-edged leaves, over hard stones and gravel, up and down the soft, fuzzy stalks of monolithic wildflowers. Harvester ants march in a line towing gigantic seeds and pieces of fungus and bits of peat. Warrior ants bring down creatures twenty times their own size, swarming and biting and stinging until their prey is subdued and ready for cutting. Butcher ants march in a line, their prizes consisting of huge cuts of grasshopper meat and dead spider legs and beetle shells.

Guard ants stand at the door to the anthill, checking each returning Warrior and Scout to make sure she belongs, prepared to sting to death any who doesn't smell right. Cataloging ants march in a line to the food storage room, high and dry and spacious. Farmer ants march in a line to the food growing room, low and moist and close. The loyalty of Her Majesty's soldiers is fueled by their bountiful crops.

Scouting ants, each following the other and never questioning the course of their journey, march in a single-file line as they seek to expand Her Majesty's empire. They find cracks in windows and spaces under doors. They enter human houses and go straight to the cabinets, to the massive storehouses of food, guided by their keen senses of smell. They infiltrate the cereal, pancake mix, sugar, flour, crackers, potato chips, cookies. A few even drown blissfully in an unsealed jar of honey, their days of tireless labor finally rewarded as they sink spread-legged to the bottom of the sweet, sticky liquid that fills their abdominal spiracles and suffocates them to death.

Wayward ants are discovered and stamped, sprayed, trapped and poisoned. Her Majesty will never know of their sacrifice.

Soldier ants march in ranks and columns as they swarm the countryside, the momentum of their swelling, surging numbers inexorably driven by their loyalty to the queen.
Opposing ants march in equally massive lines against the advance of Her Majesty's army, fiercely defending their lands before falling to the overwhelming swarm. Loyal ants lock mandibles and jab stingers and tear limbs and heads from bodies, killing and dying for the sake of the expansion of Her Majesty's colony.

Remorseless ants march back to the anthill, carrying eggs and pupae from the captured dwellings of their fallen enemies. Stolen slave ants hatch from eggs and pupate into fully grown Workers, ready and willing to join the marching lines and serve their new queen with blind and unyielding loyalty.

Work-weary ants march on and on until the stiffness of age seizes their legs in a death grip and they collapse from utter exhaustion. Healthy, young ants march indifferently past the dying. They do not stop to help. But the old ones are content as they lay by the marching line and watch their sisters continue to drive the machine of Her Majesty's empire. Their limbs curl reflexively around them as their synapses begin to fail. Their antennae cease their twitching as they lay their heads against the stones of the earth, falling peacefully into the embrace of permanent sleep.

As one of them dies, ten more are born to take her place in the marching line.