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Short stories

Antics

Antics

I had been watching it. I saw it larger than life: an ant. At first, it strolled. The sun came and it stopped, attentively. But then the fun began. It ran feverishly into one direction, then the other. It ran in circles, like a splinter of speed. I concentrated upon it. All at once, it stopped again. There was a strange and resigned motionlessness about it. Slowly, the ant began to fold in upon itself. Its legs struggled reflexively and it huddled as though it were imploding. There was a great, hard, viscous pop; a burst; a crack that measured the thunder of one small life and the ant became nothing more than a disgusting smell and a momentary scribble upon the brick. The smoke of death rose above it.

 

Yes, this was the end of a crawling thing. A spider may have eaten it, or a bird, yet this had been the ant’s end. The very sun had come and eaten it. I paused reflecting upon this small event. Yet, what was there to do about it? There was a banality, an insignificance about it. I sighed. I scratched my arm and moved the magnifying glass to the fat, sweating worm I had picked out earlier. It wriggled in anticipation.

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