** This is inspired by my summer-long battle with ants in my kitchen. It is meant to be a play-like conversation. Enjoy!**
Genocide in The Kitchen
A parley between an Ant and Me
Ant: Oh my God! Water! It’s all around me. How can I get out of here…there’s no way out of here! Ach! (cough, cough)
Me: “Caught you! Don’t even try to leave! You’ll drown.”
Ant: Oh no! It’s her! The Woman! I’ve got to run away. Oh, no. No, no. This isn’t happening. I can see the others across the Sink, the rest of my troop. She drowned them! Some of their legs are still moving. I am going to die.
Me: “How did you get in here? I thought I sealed all the entrances. Yet here you are! At least 100 of you. Where did you come in?”
Ant: Don’t say anything. She’ll kill you no matter what. No, maybe not. Maybe she’ll leave me alone if I reason with her. Ok. Here goes. “Please don’t hurt me, Woman! I know you have killed thousands of my friends and family members, but please take mercy on me. I am defenseless before you, and you are so powerful and strong. Please just let me go home.”
Me: “No! You invaded my home with your friends! You were trying to steal from me!”
Ant: “Invade? Steal? I do not know these words? What are you talking about? What is ‘steal’?”
Me: “You took what is mine from me, and you entered my home without permission to do so. For this my punishment is death, by drowning, paper towel, or vacuum.”
Ant: “Death? For this? I don’t understand. We didn’t know we needed permission. The Queen, she sent us—”
Me: “The only queen in this house is me!”
Ant: “But MY Queen sent us to you for food. Just the crumbs, you see—the things too small for you. They feed our whole village. Surely you would not begrudge something so small to you that to us is so much! Perhaps we have offended you. Were YOU planning to eat the sink crumbs? This is where you store food for your own family?”
Me: “No. You know very well that my storage areas are the Fridge and Pantry.”
Ant: “Did we ‘invade’ those?”
Me: “Well, no.”
Ant: “So if YOU weren’t going to eat it, and you weren’t storing it for your family, why shouldn’t I take it to mine?”
Me: “Because it’s mine! You had no permission and you had no right to presume it was yours for the taking! You can’t just take for free what others have worked hard to earn.”
Ant: “You have no idea how hard we worked to get here, especially after you sealed our main entrance. It took our scouts days to find another way in. Is that not earning it? Our builders work day and night, as do our scouts and retrievers. Don’t they deserve food?”
Me: “Yes, but not mine!”
Ant: “Why not? You were going to discard it anyways. If you could fit in my house, I am sure my Queen would feed you because she is kind to everyone, especially a neighbor. So we come to your house as neighbors, and you must slaughter us by the hundreds? Because we desire your leftovers? Where is the logic in that, your majesty?”
Me: “Point taken. But I still do not like you to be in my house. I am not so hospitable as your queen. In my eyes, your very presence is an act of war.”
Ant: “Then can we not have some kind of treaty between us? We are a peaceful tribe, and we certainly do not want war with our neighbors, certainly not ones as formidable as you.”
Me: “Very well. Here is our agreement then: You may take my food, but only from the trash bins outside--”
Ant: “But you put those in tied bags! It is much more difficult to retrieve the food!”
Me: “I’m sure you’ll find a way. Anyways, you may take that, but if you or your friends ever enter my house again—even for food—you’ll return home with poison that will kill all of your tribe including your precious Queen. If you respect my boundaries, like the good neighbor you claim to be, you may take what you wish, and in return, I will not destroy your home.” Take this message to your Queen.”
Ant: “Woman, I will take the message, but I cannot guarantee the result. After all, the genocide of my tribe is on your hands when we never meant anything but good for you. Yes, I will tell her of your malicious treaty and of your cruel slaughter today. But I hope your conscience makes you feel our hunger and fear.”
The Ant leaves. And moments later: Ding Dong! Ding Dong!
Me: “Ah! The Orkin Man!”
Here is a very short story that I wrote this past fall.
9:04
Tick. Throb Tick. Throb Tick. Throb.
Why can’t the throbbing and the ticking be in unison? Then perhaps I wouldn’t think about it. Every pore of my skin has a needle in it, and every needle is twisting and thrusting deeper into my skin. I’m starting to sweat.
It’s 8:42. AM or PM? I can’t remember. It must be morning; I can hear the annoying buzz of morning talk shows on the neighboring TV. It’s raining, and colliding with the monotony of the early spring shower is the sound of Rachel’s voice. She’s laughing with a carefree giggle. Why is she so cheery? Why is she laughing right outside the door? Doesn’t she know how much pain I’m in? I think she’s secretly laughing at me. Eighteen minutes till relief.
It’s 8:43, and Mr. Lovett is coughing. He’s the darling patient, waited on hand and foot. Through the thin veneer of the taupe canvas dividing our room, I can just make out his hand reaching for the red button. His cough is staccatoed by phlegm, and as it rises, it gurgles in his throat. He’s wheezing now, and Rachel enters our room.
My scalp is burning and feels as though it’s separating from my skull. A serrated knife is scraping my stomach, hollowing me before it pokes through my navel. I want to scream or cry, but my throat is parched. Rachel is fluffing Lovett’s pillows, and I can’t even have a glass of water.
“Would you like some pain killer now, Tom? Your breakfast should be here soon,” she asserts loudly to him, her voice exploding through the canvas divider as if taunting me.
I’m sure he’s ordered a gourmet feast, and I’m sure the smell will simultaneously intoxicate and nauseate me. How long has it been since I ate solid food? The whole room smells sterile, like formaldehyde. Lovett occupies the side close to the door, where he receives ample attention. I am forgotten behind the curtain by the window. The needles are pushing deeper. It’s 8:50.
“Rachel?” I whisper. Nothing. Silence. “Rachel?” a slightly louder croak.
Her blue eyes peep around the canvas, gazing with a patient indifference.
“Yes, Bill?” she asks, her honeyed voice resonating off the window.
“Please, the medicine. I need it now,” I manage as the words rake across my throat, colliding with my dry tongue.
She glances at the clock, and considers it for a moment. Perhaps she will be merciful; perhaps she does understand. Her blonde head starts to wag, and she smiles sadly, exposing whitened teeth.
“Not yet. Not until 9:00, ok? You can make it until then. It’s only a few minutes.”
It’s nine minutes. She doesn’t understand how long that is. If someone placed iron weights on her legs and glued her back to a thin mattress, maybe then she’d understand. Her back turns to sneer at me as she leaves, the green scrubs disappearing behind the canvas and then out the door.
It’s 8:52, and Lovett’s breakfast arrives. It is intoxicating. Eggs and bacon permeate the room with a delicious odor that makes my aching stomach churn. I strain my eyes, trying to see it through the taupe divider. He lifts his glass and tilts his head back as he swallows his pills, gulping the orange juice with satisfaction. I am salivating a little now as he lets a sigh of relief escape his quenched lips.
It’s 8:53, and I can’t stand to watch Lovett any more, so I turn my gaze back to the off-white ceiling. My eyes hurt. I am surrounded by neutral walls, white linens, a taupe divider, and nothing to make me remember the comfort of color. My IV bag is full of clear, unsatisfying liquid that is supposed to hydrate me, but I have never been so thirsty.
The pain is intensifying, and I am being stabbed in places I didn’t know could hurt. I feel splinters under my toe nails, and screws drilling into my jaw. My heart is beating my raw chest with heroic strength, as though it is trying to escape its cavity. I moan, still smelling Lovett’s breakfast, and it’s 8:54.
“Good morning, neighbor,” he rasps with seemingly good intention.
I say nothing. What is there to say? He has everything that I cannot. The nurses dote over him because he is so polite and good looking. His dark hair and green eyes, his muscular build and Southern accent make him a favorite among the nurses. Why should I speak to him?
“Oh, I guess you’re having a bad time of it today, eh?” he says knowingly. What does he know?
“Alright, I get it. I’ll be quiet until 9,” he winks with large enough head bob that the movement is unmistakable through the divider.
Either he is a fool or he is mocking me. I wish I had the strength to punch his lights out. He coughs, and my stomach splits on the inside. It’s 8:56. Only four minutes. It will be over soon, soon enough.
I’m gripping the paper thin sheet, staring at my toes. They have turned a grayish yellow. My skin feels dry and cool, but fire courses through my veins. Footsteps echo in the hallway. Is it her? They stop outside the door. Laughter, muffled talking, and no, it is not her. The intern is checking on Lovett, and he’s still eating, taking his time with the delectable feast they’ve spread before him. My eyes start to water hot tears, and a burning itch overwhelms my fingers.
“Please,” I hoarsely whisper. “Please let me have it now.”
The intern approaches my bed, and peers at my chart. He glances at the clock, shrugs, and stares at me with cold, uncaring eyes.
“I’ll get your nurse,” he says as he turns to leave.
It’s 8:59, and I can hear Rachel in the hallway, talking to the intern. She’s telling him not to worry about me, that she’s got it under control. I can barely hear her over the roaring in my ears. My body is burning, and she’s laughing at his joke. She partially opens the door, and a spear pins me to the bed. She takes a look at Lovett, and it’s 9:00.
It’s time for me; it’s my turn. Rachel makes casual small talk with Lovett. Yes, it’s still raining, and it should continue all day. It’s terrible news about the tax increase. She continues talking to him with a cheerful nonchalance. Is his cough still bothering him? She inquires with more detail about his health. My medicine is in her left hand. The syringe is poised between her fingers. He is joking with her coyly, and it’s 9:01.
The pain has consumed my entire body. I can’t feel anything but it anymore. The sheets are gone, the thin mattress has vanished, and the lumpy pillow has disappeared. My only smell, sight, sound, taste, and touch is a burning, intense pain. The scream I long to expel is stifled in my throat, and it’s 9:02.
It’s 9:03, and she’s looking me over. I can feel her gaze as she adjusts the IV. Her cold fingers wrap around my wrist and feel for the pulse of my thrashing heart. She lifts the syringe and injects it into the IV.
It’s 9:04. I’m numb, and I’m waiting for oblivion.
I hope you enjoy what I've posted here. Remember that if you have any thoughts, concerns, or suggestions regarding the blog, I'd love the feedback! More writing will be coming soon as I sift through my documents folder! In the meantime, please keep reading!
And all the King’s horses / And all the King’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again
Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a great King with three beautiful daughters. The eldest daughter was lovely to behold. She had dark hair and eyes and excelled in spinning the finest silk. The King had given her hand to a wealthy prince who promised the alliance of their kingdoms for her hand. The middle sister was fair and radiant with long, blonde hair. She danced more beautifully than anyone in the kingdom. The King had given her hand to the wealthiest lord in the land who promised to throw great balls in the King’s honor if the princess should marry him. The youngest daughter, Drusilla, was the most beautiful of them all. She had hair that blazed red like fire and eyes as blue as the sea. Her skill was in her wit and cleverness. She loved to test her suitors with riddles and games, and she had outsmarted every one of them.
One night, during a great storm the King’s standard was ripped from the highest wall of the castle by a strong wind. The King and a great company of his soldiers were to arrive at the castle to visit Princess Drusilla the next day. The morning after the storm the winds were still high, and Princess Drusilla was in a mischievous mood.
The main purpose of this blog is to share stories, poetry, and ruminations with anyone interested. Although, it is still in the process of construction (and probably always will be to some extent), I heartily welcome any constructive comments on the appearance or suggestions as to how to make it better.
I feel that sharing stories is not only important but part of what we were made to do.
If you can imagine the world of art as an enormous forest, and if you can imagine the community of writers today as one tree in that forest, then please consider my writing as one tiny leaf contributing to a much greater whole.
--Sarah Hogg