An ant spends approximately three months to build an anthill. In a matter of seconds, a young, simple-minded child can destroy it with his tiny light up shoes. The harder he stomps, the more his shoes light up. This is fun. Pause time please. The four year old boys’ mouth is wide open, with his knees to his chest; toes curled inside his shoes for their hopefully devastating impact. The holes in his worn pants show scabs from past adventures; adventures that are undoubtedly full of constant adrenaline rampages. Both hands energetically up in the air. The right hand, forgetfully squeezes the life out of the boys half eaten Twinkie, leaving a sticky, gooey mess all over the boys’ hand. The thrill of the anthill was strong enough to make this four year old lose memory of his strenuously begged treat. His long blonde curly hair covers his eyes, but, examining more closely, his eyes are tightly shut, creating three or four tiny wrinkles on the corners of his eyes. His shirt, what shirt? Unless a mixture of water and dirt, more commonly known as mud, is considered a shirt, then yes, it’s only a thin layer, but it covers most of his torso and arms, minus his biceps, neck, and a few clean patches on his back. The sun’s heat has begun drying the mud, leaving most of it crispy, and with the ecstatic movement of the boy, has started to chip away in tiny pieces off the boy’s body. The fallen pieces of mud leave hard to see grey spots on the boy’s skin, later his mom will persuade him with lots of toys to get into the tub later that evening. Now, the ant. Again, for the past three or four months, this ant has been hard at work creating an elaborate hill, made of only the finest soil. Not alone, thousands of other tiny ants have also been hard at work. This hill is their home, their refuge, their everything. It’s an extensive network of underground tunnels winding and weaving in and out of each other. With the boy smashing and stomping uncontrollably, the ants’ small piece of order is now chaos. Back to real time please. Sand and dirt is flying everywhere. The boy is flailing his arms everywhere, and has finally lost grip of his lifeless Twinkie, which has falling five or six feet behind him. The boys’ wide-opened mouth releases a shriek so loud, even old people can hear him. His feet smash into the hill forcefully, while his body absorbs the blow by hunkering down into a squatting pose. He then uses all of his strength in his thigh and calf muscles to suspend him again and again over the anthill. This repeats for a few more seconds, until the boy is bored and scampers off for a new adventure, leaving the anthill in ruins. In this moment, the ants have every right to get pissed off. They deserve to be upset, devastated, and hurt. They deserve to seek revenge on the young boy, hoping that this will help them fill the crater the boy has just made on their existence. They deserve to wallow in pain, and mutter complaints to a dear friend (if they have any dear friends left after the attack). However, they do not. They immediately start to repair the order they once had.
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Ant
DISCLAIMER: I wrote this in the middle of the night, hoping that writing would help me fall asleep....so I was a little "out of it".
An ant spends approximately three months to build an anthill. In a matter of seconds, a young, simple-minded child can destroy it with his tiny light up shoes. The harder he stomps, the more his shoes light up. This is fun. Pause time please. The four year old boys’ mouth is wide open, with his knees to his chest; toes curled inside his shoes for their hopefully devastating impact. The holes in his worn pants show scabs from past adventures; adventures that are undoubtedly full of constant adrenaline rampages. Both hands energetically up in the air. The right hand, forgetfully squeezes the life out of the boys half eaten Twinkie, leaving a sticky, gooey mess all over the boys’ hand. The thrill of the anthill was strong enough to make this four year old lose memory of his strenuously begged treat. His long blonde curly hair covers his eyes, but, examining more closely, his eyes are tightly shut, creating three or four tiny wrinkles on the corners of his eyes. His shirt, what shirt? Unless a mixture of water and dirt, more commonly known as mud, is considered a shirt, then yes, it’s only a thin layer, but it covers most of his torso and arms, minus his biceps, neck, and a few clean patches on his back. The sun’s heat has begun drying the mud, leaving most of it crispy, and with the ecstatic movement of the boy, has started to chip away in tiny pieces off the boy’s body. The fallen pieces of mud leave hard to see grey spots on the boy’s skin, later his mom will persuade him with lots of toys to get into the tub later that evening. Now, the ant. Again, for the past three or four months, this ant has been hard at work creating an elaborate hill, made of only the finest soil. Not alone, thousands of other tiny ants have also been hard at work. This hill is their home, their refuge, their everything. It’s an extensive network of underground tunnels winding and weaving in and out of each other. With the boy smashing and stomping uncontrollably, the ants’ small piece of order is now chaos. Back to real time please. Sand and dirt is flying everywhere. The boy is flailing his arms everywhere, and has finally lost grip of his lifeless Twinkie, which has falling five or six feet behind him. The boys’ wide-opened mouth releases a shriek so loud, even old people can hear him. His feet smash into the hill forcefully, while his body absorbs the blow by hunkering down into a squatting pose. He then uses all of his strength in his thigh and calf muscles to suspend him again and again over the anthill. This repeats for a few more seconds, until the boy is bored and scampers off for a new adventure, leaving the anthill in ruins. In this moment, the ants have every right to get pissed off. They deserve to be upset, devastated, and hurt. They deserve to seek revenge on the young boy, hoping that this will help them fill the crater the boy has just made on their existence. They deserve to wallow in pain, and mutter complaints to a dear friend (if they have any dear friends left after the attack). However, they do not. They immediately start to repair the order they once had.
An ant spends approximately three months to build an anthill. In a matter of seconds, a young, simple-minded child can destroy it with his tiny light up shoes. The harder he stomps, the more his shoes light up. This is fun. Pause time please. The four year old boys’ mouth is wide open, with his knees to his chest; toes curled inside his shoes for their hopefully devastating impact. The holes in his worn pants show scabs from past adventures; adventures that are undoubtedly full of constant adrenaline rampages. Both hands energetically up in the air. The right hand, forgetfully squeezes the life out of the boys half eaten Twinkie, leaving a sticky, gooey mess all over the boys’ hand. The thrill of the anthill was strong enough to make this four year old lose memory of his strenuously begged treat. His long blonde curly hair covers his eyes, but, examining more closely, his eyes are tightly shut, creating three or four tiny wrinkles on the corners of his eyes. His shirt, what shirt? Unless a mixture of water and dirt, more commonly known as mud, is considered a shirt, then yes, it’s only a thin layer, but it covers most of his torso and arms, minus his biceps, neck, and a few clean patches on his back. The sun’s heat has begun drying the mud, leaving most of it crispy, and with the ecstatic movement of the boy, has started to chip away in tiny pieces off the boy’s body. The fallen pieces of mud leave hard to see grey spots on the boy’s skin, later his mom will persuade him with lots of toys to get into the tub later that evening. Now, the ant. Again, for the past three or four months, this ant has been hard at work creating an elaborate hill, made of only the finest soil. Not alone, thousands of other tiny ants have also been hard at work. This hill is their home, their refuge, their everything. It’s an extensive network of underground tunnels winding and weaving in and out of each other. With the boy smashing and stomping uncontrollably, the ants’ small piece of order is now chaos. Back to real time please. Sand and dirt is flying everywhere. The boy is flailing his arms everywhere, and has finally lost grip of his lifeless Twinkie, which has falling five or six feet behind him. The boys’ wide-opened mouth releases a shriek so loud, even old people can hear him. His feet smash into the hill forcefully, while his body absorbs the blow by hunkering down into a squatting pose. He then uses all of his strength in his thigh and calf muscles to suspend him again and again over the anthill. This repeats for a few more seconds, until the boy is bored and scampers off for a new adventure, leaving the anthill in ruins. In this moment, the ants have every right to get pissed off. They deserve to be upset, devastated, and hurt. They deserve to seek revenge on the young boy, hoping that this will help them fill the crater the boy has just made on their existence. They deserve to wallow in pain, and mutter complaints to a dear friend (if they have any dear friends left after the attack). However, they do not. They immediately start to repair the order they once had.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment