Category: Short Story

Ménage à trois

We met one of the three right away. We had just gotten to the condo, walked out onto the balcony, and talked about how great it was to be back, when she climbed up the pillar and across the branch-thatched roof of the balcony down and in front of ours. Gary seemed to know her, but he told us later that he had only met her earlier that day. David and I were surprised. The climb she made was not a safe one. Before she had swung her other leg over the iron fence and put both feet down on our balcony, she was already talking a mile a minute. She was high on coke, she hadn’t slept much the night before, and her other two friends were taking a nap in the condo below us.

Gary invited her and her friends to play volleyball on the beach with us that evening at 6. She said they would come and then she climbed back down.

She was late to volleyball. We waited for her and her friends by the fountain. She leaned over the railing on the third floor and said that they were coming, they were just going to be another two or three minutes.

Later that night, we got back from dinner and sat on our balcony. We sat there for an hour and talked and drank water. Then, around ten at night, we heard her voice, “Friends? Are you up there?” We said something to let her know that we were. And up she climbed.

She was even more drunk than she had been before. She talked. Then she swung her leg over the iron fence and stepped out onto the thatched roof. Ron was there. She slipped. We heard her squeal. I distinctly remember hearing one of the small branches snap in half. And then the smack of bare skin hitting glazed ceramic tile.

Originally written: Wednesday, May 26, 2021, 1:34 PM

Posted on by Cole

Astronaut flowers

On the ledge in our apartment, a plant grows with hanging vines and thick, rubbery green leaves the size of quarters. We have had the plant for more than a year, ever since we brought it home from the store last summer. To our surprise, the plant started to grow purple things that looked to me like long teacups. Then, from the teacups, came forth red flowers that looked to me like dragon mouths. Ten or twelve of the these red dragon mouths grew from the ends of the lowest hanging vines, then, not more than two weeks later, the red flowers started to fall. We picked them up and put them on the window sill, not wanting to get rid of their red beauty. Sitting at the dining table, I realized what was happening. I could be wrong; I am just guessing. But it seemed that the flowers likely contained the seed of the plant. They were being sent forth to find fertile soil and grow a whole plant anew. I was sad then, because all the seeds had failed to find fertile soil. It made me think of our human race, and how we might one day send astronauts deep into space on a colonizing mission from which there is no hope of return. Such was the fate of these flowers. They were sent forth, with no hope of return, to find fertile soil and spawn a plant family anew, or else never know plant kin again. The rubbery red dragon flowers did not know that they would find only hardwood floor, and die alone.

Originally written on: August 23, 2020

Posted on by Cole

I walked to the park today

I walked to the park after work today. I walked down California Street until I reached the avenues in the Richmond and then I turned north on Sixth Avenue until I got to the park.

It was sunny, but not too sunny. It seemed like the sun was farther away, sending its heat from a distance, so it wasn’t too hot. I almost wished it was hotter. When I walked through a part of shade under a tree or on the side of a building and a breeze would blow at the same time, I was almost cold.

The sky was blue. It was the same blue across the whole sky, except near the sun where it was white. I got to the park and walked out to a clearing in between the trees. There were other people around. Some dogs and some small children.

I watched one little girl squat down and cry. She seemed to be about a year old. Her mother (or at least I presume it was her mother) stood there and waited patiently for her to finish crying.

There were dogs on leashes with their owners. There were people seated on the grass having a picnic or just talking. I sat down on the grass and talked to my dad on the phone. We talked about making decisions and how that’s part of life. He told me his perspective and I thanked him.

It is ironic that I realize as I get older the value of wisdom from those who are even older than me. Perhaps it is because I am getting older and will want people to ask me for my wisdom someday. Perhaps it is because I am getting wiser as I am getting older, and it is part of being wiser to realize that it is wise to seek wisdom from others who are older.

After my call with my dad I walked deeper into the trees. I found an area of level ground and did push-ups. I started with twenty normal push-ups. Then I stood up and took a short break and walked in circles. Then I did twenty push-ups with my hands in the shape of a diamond. And I stood up and walked in circles again. I did other variations of push-ups until I was tired.

I was relaxing and thinking of whether I should walk deeper in the park. Then I realized I was late for dinner. My girlfriend said she was going to put the salmon in the oven. That was probably over an hour ago, I thought. So I went back.

I was late. My salmon was cold and dry. But the broccoli was still warm. I ate and then took a shower. Now I’m sitting on the side of the tub in my towel writing this.

Posted on by Cole

Searching for my muse

I woke up early today to find my muse. It is almost summer so the light was up before me, peeking in between the drapes. I got out of bed and rolled the rug away to make space for my mat. I did my stretches and put on the clothes and pack that I had set out the night before. I opened the door and locked it behind me and stepped onto the sidewalk outside to find the peace and quiet of the morning.

I walked on a street with shops. I walked in a forest. I walked across the bridge. After almost four hours of walking, I began to despair. My muse had been missing for some time. All this past week she has been missing, and I had only caught glimpses of her a few of the weeks before.

I stopped overlooking the ocean. I took a drink of water and ate one of the bars I had packed in my bag. I walked to the beach. It was still foggy and the beach was not too inviting. But I was tired and wanted to lie down. I did, and after finding a comfortable position in the sand, fell asleep.

When I woke, the sun was shining. The clouds had separated for the sun to shine through. It was then that I found my muse. I searched in my pack for my phone and began to write. I wrote some poems and then I wrote this.

My muse will have to go again soon. I have become used to this, her coming and going. But I am grateful to have found her. And will be grateful to search for her again.

Posted on by Cole

The Fish Man

Or maybe, it is like a side show I once saw at the circus. “The Fish Man,” they called him. I watched the man in the human-sized fish tank. He even swam like a fish. The tank was small, but he managed all sorts of aquatic maneuvers. Bending his back and kicking the water with flipper-like feet, he could swim circles round and round in the tank. It even seemed that he had webbing between his fingers and his toes (but that could have been makeup and prosthetics).

I read the plaque nailed to the top of a stake that was driven into the wet ground in front of the tank. The plaque read thus:

“Behold the Fish Man. He was not born this way. He chose to become like a fish. Some rumors say that he once told his mother while taking a bath that he preferred it underwater. He began learning to hold his breath. At first, like any person, he could only hold his breath for sixty seconds. Over the years, spending all his time underwater, the Fish Man learned, by various unknown methods, to hold his breath for longer and longer. Today, the Fish Man only comes out of water once in the morning and once in the evening. He sleeps at the bottom of the same tank that you see him in now.”

At the time, I didn’t for a second believe it. I figured there must be some invisible breathing tube worked into the tank, and by some sleight of hand, or sleight of swim, the Fish Man was able to take a breath from the tube as he completed one of his back-bending flip maneuvers. I watched him for a while but couldn’t catch a moment where the Fish Man seemed to do anything like breathing through an invisible tube.

I couldn’t help but wonder to myself what it had been like for the Fish Man to learn to hold his breath. Even if it was a sham, he probably had some talents for holding his breath underwater.

Posted on by Cole

Backstage

Backstage wasn’t usually this quiet. Not completely silent, of course. You could still hear the opener thudding through the walls of the dressing room.

As soon as they had the bandmates pushed out and the door closed behind them, she had his shirt off. There was a ferocious banging on the door. They ignored it. Then it came even louder, threatening to knock the door out of its frame, and a voice screaming from the other side, “Jackie!”

He unclenched her grip from around the back of his neck, turned, and opened the door just a crack, through which the sound of the opener forced its way in, vocals wailing and bass thumping.

Travis, his drummer, was standing there with his forearm resting on the frame and his head against his rest, annoyed, like he’d been through this a hundred times.

“Can you at least hand me the bottle of booze off the table there, mate?”

“Anything else?” Jackie said, sarcastically, handing him the bottle.

“Oh yea, can I bum a cigarette?” Travis said with an open-mouthed grin that revealed a gap in his two front teeth.

Jackie slammed the door in his face.

“Okay, where were we?” Jackie said turning on his heel and waking over to the couch that was missing a cushion where she was lounging, like she felt right at home.

She was looking at him. He walked over and put both hands under her cheek bones. She pushed him away, and kept looking at him, at his torso.

“What? What’s wrong? Is it my tattoos? The devil on there doesn’t mean nothing. It’s just an old band I was with …”

“No, it’s not that,” she interrupted him.

“Oh,” he smiled. “It’s just because I’m so devilishly handsome?” He said this with the best London accent he could manage. His bandmates were actually born and raised in London but Jackie was just a tourist there when they all met. Most of their fans didn’t actually know that. He figured he could fool this one.

“No, it’s not that either.”

“What is it then?” He asked, now a little alarmed, hoping she wasn’t crazy. About to ask him if they would ever see each other again.

“You’re so … so skinny.”

He laughed. “What do you expect? I’m a rockstar. I eat more drugs than food.”

After they were finished. Jackie walked right out onto stage holding her hand. He didn’t think anything of it. He didn’t care. The magazines would write about it for weeks, “Who’s Jackie’s mystery girl?” And a feminine silhouette on the cover with a question mark in place of a face. The truth was, there were many faces that could have replaced that question mark.

He walked right out onto the front of the stage and held her hand as one of the security guards helped her down into the front row.

After the show, he looked for her. He really did. He tried to catch her face in the crowd all the way through their last song. He worried about it in the tour bus on the way to the hotel.

Then Travis handed him a bottle. A new bottle, full again. Jackie took a drink and forgot.

Posted on by Cole

A white dog called Winter

Prose version:

I was on my way home from the park, still in the park actually, but on the borders of it, almost out, when I saw a white dog digging in the trash for scraps. It looked like someone had taken the trash bin and turned it upside down to empty all its contents on the ground. Or maybe the dog did it. But I doubted that because the trash bins in the park were usually kept inside of a metal container. Come to think of it, that container was usually locked. So maybe the maintenance man had made a mistake by forgetting to lock the container.

Anyway, so this white dog is digging in the trash strewn on the ground. And I already knew there was trouble coming, because it was a very pretty dog with a collar, which led me to believe that the dog had an owner. And that owner was likely close by. After all, we were in a park where people often come with their dogs. So I figured I must have caught this scene in the small amount of time between when a dog gets out of sight from its owner and before the owner realizes.

And sure enough, I heard a voice from the other side of the tall bushes shout, “Winter!” And see, this is where I had to laugh to myself. Because if it had been any other dog’s name, then I couldn’t have known for sure. If it was Milo, or Buddy, or some other generic dog name, then I couldn’t have known that this voice was coming for this dog’s owner. But there was no mistaking, putting two facts together—this dog was lost and it’s owner would probably be calling, and it’s fur coat was white as winter—that this owner shouting their dog’s name from the other side of the tall bushes was the owner of this white dog digging in the trash.

And that’s when I left. I realized I had been standing there just watching the dog dig in the trash. And I don’t like drama. So I didn’t want to be there when the owner found their dog. So I started walked away as fast as I could. And by the time I was out of sight but still just barely within earshot, I head the same owner’s voice shout, “Get out of there!”

Poetry version:

At the park

I walk past

A white dog

Digging in the trash

For scraps

And already know

There’s trouble coming

Before I hear

From a ways off

The dog’s owner,

I’m supposing,

Shout, “Winter!”

As the dog proceeds

To lick a paper plate

That once held pizza

I walk by

Leaving the scene behind

But not before hearing

The owner come closer

And exclaim,

“Get out of there!”

Posted on by Cole

Opera

Boy and girl go to the opera on a first date. 

“Don’t you worry about bringing someone here on a first date?” She asked. 

He was struck by the question. “Why should I worry?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the date turns out to be not so good and then, well, then you’re struck at an opera!”

She said the word opera in a way that disclosed her feelings about it. 

“Ah, I see. Well for me, it’s the exact opposite. If the date turns out to be bad, then at least I can enjoy the opera.” 

He smiled at her when he said this, hinting gently at the possibility that the date could go bad, but he rather liked Rachel already, even though they had only met for the first time in-person just fifteen minutes ago. 

They were walking down the sidewalk wearing winter coats. Winters in Chicago were very cold. He wore a grey pea coat with the collar pulled up around his neck. He had his hands tucked into the pockets in both sides of the coat’s abdomen. She wore a fur coat and a scarf.  She had on black leather gloves. Her left hand held her purse and the other held his arm. 

“Have you ever had a bad date at the opera?”

She was still on the subject, it seemed. But this was a trick question, he knew. Not so much about the opera as it was about his recent dating history. 

“I did once, yes. She actually forced us to leave right in the middle. She wanted to go for a drink. So we went across the street for a drink. And then I said I had to be off because I had an early morning the next day. She wanted to keep drinking but I insisted. I don’t like drinking much anyway.”

They kept walking in silence for a moment. He studied her pause. That bit was important. He had avoided anything distasteful about the dating and revealed a few key pieces of information about himself. 

He carried on the conversation to avoid dwelling. “How long have you lived in Chicago?”

Like this, they walked and talked along Main Street. By the time they arrived at the opera house his shoulders were tucked up tight around his neck and her nose was bright red. They were glad to get indoors. 

The opera house was brightly lit. 

…

He marveled at the capabilities of a human voice. 

Like any great feat, it made him wonder about the capabilities of man more generally. His mind started to drift, but he pulled his attention back to the music.

Posted on by Cole

short story about acting

there is a role that requires full devotion from the actor in order to act it well. the role is described brilliantly by a screenwriter. actors that read the script are moved by it and are both awe-struck and afraid at the same time of the role. they discuss it amongst themselves abstractly but they know that the role cannot be fully understood until they start undertaking the method acting for the role. they don’t know who the screenwriter is that wrote the role. they find out towards the end that the writer killed himself shortly after he completed the screenplay. it is clear that the character consumed the writer. the plot of the story itself was merely a background to the descriptions of this character. the small group of actors timidly discuss who will be the first to try the role. the main theme is contemplating what a personality can become …

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Making More of Mr. Seetner

Short story about a man who wonders on his bus rides home about making more of himself. Hands folded, elbows on his knees, hunched over, thinking as he usually was at this time—bumping along in the back of the bus.

Posted on by Cole

another short story idea

Imagine a bed with two lovers way up high. they cannot see how far the fall would be beneath them and there is nothing at all to see around them or upwards, other than a dull light nothingness almost like the color of a cloud. they hang their arms and legs off the side and imagine what it would be like to fall. they jump on the bed and so can understand the concept of gravity and falling. they wonder what it would be like to jump and not land on the bed. they are born this way, in love and only knowing one another and their limited mattress life, thought they don’t see it as limited, because it is all they’ve ever known. until one morning, one lover wakes up to find that the other is not there. he wonders if she somehow ascended, but is almost certain that she has fallen. then he wonders whether it was intentional or by accident. his life changes completely now, without her. he only knew life with another. he only knew life in love. now he finds himself thinking to himself instead of sharing everything out loud. he has no outlet for the physical expression of his love. he begins a relationship with himself, because that is the only person there is left to have a relationship with, unless he were to make the intentional decision to jump off the bed. he even has a passing thought that he might find her if he were to do so.

Posted on by Cole

short story idea

imagine a world where every human is born into anarchy and must live the first 18 years of their life in that anarchy and then on the 18th birthday can decide which government they wish to participate in: A capitalistic democracy, a communist or socialist state, a dictatorship with a preselected dictator, or to remain an anarchy. you have to imagine the invalids, deadbeats, and criminals would either remain in anarchy or otherwise choose the capitalist or the socialist state and pose as a capitalist or socialist in order to take advantage of the system. So then there should also be tests in order to gain access to each system. Presumably the highest standards would be for the cavalier society that wants competitive and capable individuals to make the market more efficient and productive the second tier would be the socialist state that still requires work from individuals but cares less of individuals less capable, dealership would have less standards because presumably the demand for this government would be low in the first place and the dictator would need lower standards just to have some volunteers. And of course the anarchy would have no standards at all that would be the state of nature. So therefore what you decide to do with the first 18 years of your life determines in a very definite way your quality-of-life thereafter and also completely voluntarySocial contract for the government you participate in. It should be similar i imagine to preordained marriage in the sense that you’re more committed to an institution that you choose yourself.

Posted on by Cole

bible beater

a man holding a sign walking down broadway in santa monica past tourists and shoppers reciting bible verses into a megaphone and the sign says something about how there is a god and a man on the other side of the street shouts, get a life!

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walked into a mirror almost

everything looks the same in a store with rows and rows of clothes so i’m confused when i want to walk through and take a step then have to stop when i realize it’s a mirror reflecting the rows of clothes behind me so on the next turn i’m hesitant even though it’s really a row that i can walk through this time

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zuma beach

at the zuma beach, we ask the parking attendant if she has a map. she doesn’t speak english very well. she says, no, just beach.

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we are all fishing

we are all fishing. the world is globular and all water. all over, we speckle the surface, in our boats. some with different lures and others with longer lines, all fishing.

our bobbers on the surface tell us a shallow and single-pointed story of the beast beneath pulling on the other end of the line.

what we don’t know, at the center of it all, is the same big fish. it will pull you out of your boat and under and swallow you whole.

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Alone on the main road

Some several weeks pass when all I’m doing is ignoring like a horse with blinders, walking straight down the main road and past forks, trails in the snow that lead nowhere, I just put my head down and pull my collar around my neck and walk all alone against the wind even though some of the false paths seem to lead somewhere sunny and warm, I’ve got to keep on the main road and move forward not sideways until I get to the real turn where the main road itself bends in a direction and then I’ll know for sure that’s the way. But the longer I trek the more promising each of these premature paths appear, sometimes I even try and trick myself into not seeing that the main road continues any further and this false bend is really the one. Though I know I’d kick myself if I ever turned off and got lost going the wrong way. So I pull up my collar and press on against the wind on the main road.

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Sidewalk pirate

I watched a man with an eyepatch light a cigarette as he walked on the sidewalk. The sun was setting so I could see the light illuminate his good eye.

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I left one morning

I left one morning with nowhere to go so that on every street corner there was no motive for me in any direction and I went until I ended up wherever and it was dark and I was hungry so I had to figure out what to eat and where to sleep for the night.

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Homeless poet

The homeless man says, “The first part is you have to go somewhere that knows.” That’s all he said, to nobody, as people passed by on the street, nobody listening. I think to myself, is there any difference between my poetry and the ramblings of this homeless man? I don’t think there is, really.

The homeless man speaking poetry all day and nobody listens. Maybe he was a poet with a home at one point. Still a poet now but without a home. Maybe one of the best ever. Maybe he was too good and his poetry consumed him along with the drugs. No one will ever know, because nobody listens.

Posted on by Cole

Spending winter break at university

I do my breaks alone. I travel to universities in the Midwest and rent a dorm room in the empty halls and take my showers in the community bathroom. They both rushed to tell me that I could spend the holiday break with their families. So I had to politely decline and tell them about how I actually enjoyed it. Something from my old school days is still hidden there, something scholastic and nostalgic. I sit at an old mass-produced wooden desk on a worn-out desk chair with a red wool cushion. There’s nothing on top of the desk except a book and a notepad under yellow light. It gets spooky at night, something about a place where normally so many people are but then nobody is. It reminds me of the Thanksgiving I spent alone in my dorm room during college. I was scared to get out of my bed at night and walk down the long empty hallways alone.

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Bright light

I turn off the bright light and turn on a dimmer one. In a few minutes I say to myself, “Gosh darn, I thought I turned that bright light off.” Then I look up to see the lights and it’s the dimmer one that’s on. I say to myself, “Oh wow, how my eyes have adjusted.”

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Four of us feeling good

Through a tunnel passing through the low yellow lights crossing the bridge smoking in the car speakers drumming early in the afternoon four of us talking and feeling good.

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My Mother Was An Artist

My mother was an artist. In her hometown she got sick and went to see the medicine woman in the fields. The medicine woman was there and my mother’s mother was still alive and she knelt there in the fields among rows of other people that had passed on. They all knelt down in the dirt on a sunny day. Here they came to life again, in the medicine woman’s field.

My mom was sick. You only went to see the medicine woman when you were already sick. If you were healthy, the dead would make you sick anyway. When you were sick already, it didn’t matter. My mother held me in her arms. I was sick too. I was a baby too young to remember this story.

My mother knelt in the field next to her mother, my grandma. My grandma knelt there in the dirt looking very somber and worn down by being in the sun all day. My grandma held a baby boy also. He was my mother’s baby brother, John. He would have been my uncle had he not died before he was one year old.

My mother knelt next to my grandmother and communicated via the medicine woman. My grandma whispered to the medicine woman and the medicine woman turned and translated to my mother. My grandmother, via the medicine woman, told my mother that she was proud of her. She also said, holding dead baby John in her arms, that I looked to be very healthy. I was a little younger than one year old at the time, just like dead baby John.

The medicine woman said that it was time for us to go. This did not phase my grandmother. She knew that it was as things must be. She maintained her same somber disposition. Her golden cheeks eternally tanned by the sun of the dead. She whispered one last thing to the medicine woman and the medicine woman turned to my mother and told her, “She wants you to know that she loves you.” My mother cried a single tear in the soil of the dead. Then the medicine woman said that we really must go.

She led us away from my mother and through rows of other dead people kneeling in the soil. We came out of the rows and reached a road and departed from the dead. In the real world, the fields of the dead were a gift shop filled with pictures. There were many aisles of framed pictures of deceased loved ones. They hung on the artificial walls like books sorted in the shelves at a library.

The medicine woman told my mother, earlier this morning I sold the first one of your mother’s pictures. She only has four photos left now and then she will move on from the fields and rejoin the sun.

Thank you, my mom said to the medicine woman, putting her hand on the woman’s shoulder. I will come back and see her again once more before she passes on. I will have one more question to ask her. Well, why did you not ask her today? asked the medicine woman. Because I don’t know the question yet, replied my mom.

The medicine woman smiled and said that she understood. With me as a baby still in her arms my mother said goodbye to the medicine woman and left the fields of the dead, or in reality, a picture gift shop where souls waited in purgatory to pass on into the sun.

Posted on by Cole

Creation story

The Will has to be individuated into an ego in order for effects to be realized in space and time.

The Self could not get to a goal as it was, because it is not the nature of the Self to act. The Self just was and nothing necessarily needed to be done.

The creation story begins when all of a sudden there was something to be done. And the Self created mankind, beings capable of doing. He gifted unto them fragments of the Will subjected to time and space—thus mankind is striving after what the Self needed us to achieve but couldn’t on His own.

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The Little Ant: A Short Story

The little ant couldn’t remember how he had gotten lost. He was in the middle of an expanse with no sense of direction. The ground under his feet was hard. He had nothing with him other than the grain of rice that he held in his mandibles. He had no thoughts in his head other than delivering the grain of rice to the colony. It was so peculiar, the little ant thought to himself, that he could not remember anything from before. He could not remember the queen, not specifically at least. He could not remember what she looked like, only that he did in fact have a queen. He could not remember his brothers or the tunnels inside the ant hill, only that he did in fact have a home and the colony was waiting for him and depending on him to deliver the grain of rice.

The first few seconds, which are whole days in ant time, the ant spent in despair. “How did this happen to me?” he asked himself over and over again. He felt disconnected, alone, and purposeless. The colony is the reason to live for an ant. Without his queen and worker brothers, the ant felt no energy for life. But he still had the grain of rice in his mandibles. He had a duty to the colony, he remembered. Thus concluded his period of despair and reintroduced to the little ant the resolve that is customary for his kind.

He was hungry. He thought of taking a little bite from the grain of rice. No he could not, he told himself. It was for the colony. The colony needed it more than he did.

The little ant looked around to see in what direction he might start to search for the colony. He was in a foreign place, or at least a place that he did not remember. In all directions, it was only flat and there was nothing noticeable to be seen. The little ant realized there was nothing that would tell him which direction to choose. He picked up the grain of rice with his mandibles and started off in the direction that he was already facing.

It was many minutes that the little ant marched straight in the same direction. He was careful to pay attention to the movements of his legs. Because he had no information neither from his sight nor from the smell of the colony, he had to be careful this his steps on the left and right sides were equal, to guarantee that he moved forward in the same straight line. He was also counting the number of steps that he took to know exactly how far he had traveled.

If he did not find anything in this direction, he would turn around and walk back in the exact same direction from where he came. He reasoned to himself that he could not be far from the colony. He did not want to risk marching off in the wrong direction, away from the colony. He planned to set out on equidistant paths from the center where he started. This would allow him to cover the most ground, closest to where he began.

There were occasionally long ropes scattered on the hard floor. The little ant dared not leave his track to examine them until he came across one of the ropes in his path. It was not a rope, but a strand of hair. It was much longer than ant hair. He wondered to what kind of beast such a long hair could belong. He wondered if such a beast had anything to do with his separation from the colony. The little ant felt a sudden fear for the colony. He hoped they were safe from this great beast. He stepped over the hair and shuddered as he did. He continued on the same path, keeping his left and right steps equal.

The little ant had no way of keeping track of time other than the steps he had counted. He had taken twenty-five-thousand-six-hundred-and-twenty-eight steps. He had not stopped other than to briefly examine the strand of hair from the great beast. The little ant wondered to himself how many steps he would take before he would turn around and retrace his steps backwards. He cursed his predicament for he had no sense of how large was this vast expanse that he was in. If he only knew, then he could determine how far he needed to travel in each direction. The best he could do was to guess.

The ant was now more hungry than he was before. Time would become a factor unless he found something else to eat. He would dare not take even the smallest bite from the grain of rice. The rice was for the colony. There was no purpose in him even returning to the colony if he did not bring the grain of rice.

When the little ant reached fifty-thousand steps, he turned around. He was very careful when he turned. He composed himself and stood straight as an arrow in the direction that he was facing. He took note of the position of his body. He would do it in two movements, he decided. The first would be a quarter-turn to his right. He would then make a second quarter-turn to complete a one-hundred-and-eighty degree-turn so that he would be facing, hopefully, in the exact direction from which he came. He cursed himself for not marking the spot from which he had originally departed. He could have carved a large “X” in the floor with his mandible. Now he had no way of knowing if the measurements and count for his steps were accurate. He would have to trust them. He had no choice.

The ant started his fifty-thousand-step journey. He crossed the large strand of hair at roughly the same step, which was a good sign that he was on the right track. When the ant counted his fifty-thousandth step, he started the count over. He was now tracing new steps.

When the ant was a third of the way into his journey in the second direction, there was all of a sudden a great shadow cast over the whole of the expanse for as far as the little ant could see in any direction. Instinctually, the little ant dropped the grain of rice from his mandibles and did his best to crawl atop it and cover it with his body (the grain of rice was several times the size of the little ant). Just as quickly as it had come, the shadow passed and the light from an unknown source returned to the whole landscape. The little ant shuddered. What was that? He wondered to himself. Did it have anything to do with the giant strands of hair that were scattered all around? Did the shadow belong to the great beast?

The little ant stood immobilized for some time. What would he do if confronted with such a large beast? He did not know, he told himself. There was only one thing he could do. He picked up the grain of rice in his mandibles. Before he began again, he realized that he might have lost his direction slightly after having thrown his body on top of the grain of rice and losing his footing as a result. There was nothing he could do about it now. He reset his track as best he could and took a step to continue on.

Nothing occupied the little ant’s mind other than the count of his steps and the soft embrace with which he gripped the grain of rice in between his jaws. He started to feel a kinship with the rice. At first he scolded himself for giving into delirium. He longed for the companionship of his brother ants and his queen. It was not for an ant to be alone. Still, even as he admonished himself, he could not help but feel connected to the grain of rice. At times, he swore that he could feel a soft rhythm like a heartbeat against his mandibles. It was only the vibrations from his steps, he told himself. Grains of rice did not have heartbeats.

He had now gone more than forty-thousand steps in this second direction. He was twice as hungry as before. He started to feel a weakness in his legs and mandibles but dared not pay attention to this. He was still likely very far from the colony. He did not even know anything about where he was. The most frightening thought crept into his mind, the colony might be no more.

After all, he did not remember anything. How could he be so sure that he even had a colony? The little ant shook his head, trying to shake out these thoughts. He admonished himself two-fold: for having thoughts in the first place, and for not keeping his head straight and rigid in the interest of staying on the path.

There was no productive outcome of thoughts like these, he reminded himself. The only productive thoughts led to action in the service of the colony. Any thoughts that led to either inaction or action not in service of the colony were thoughts not to be had. The little ant marched on, recommitted to his steps and maintaining the posture of his mandibles, even though the joints of his jaw had started to ache severely—the ant didn’t think of this.

At precisely forty-four-thousand-five-hundred-and-eighty-six steps, there was another shadow. This shadow was different, however. It was static and non-moving, not like the beast’s. The little ant set down the grain of rice carefully to get a better look. In the distance there was a vague color not like the hazy blur of nothingness. It was a wall! He could not see the ceiling but he knew it was a wall. The little ant did not know how he knew this, or from where he had learned the concept of a “room.” But he knew it, as sure as he believed that he had come from a colony.

The wood inside of a wall would provide an ideal home for a colony. The little ant contained his excitement and reminded himself to focus on only two things: counting his steps and holding the grain of rice in his mandibles.

The little ant passed fifty-thousand steps in this second direction. According to the plan, he should have turned around. However, finding the wall justified an update to the plan—the little ant reasoned with himself.

At sixty-three-thousand-one-hundred-and-twenty-nine steps, the little ant stopped with the grain of rice against the wooden, painted-white floorboard of the wall. The little ant didn’t move. He surveyed to the left and the right, along the floorboard. To the right, the floorboard appeared to go on out of sight, undisturbed. To the left, there was a part where the head of a nail protruded from the floorboard and it looked as if the board was pulled slightly away from the wall. Maybe there was an opening where he could get in, the little ant said to himself.

The risk of exploring the possible opening was that the little ant would have to abandon the rigid structure of his exploration. He could not, however, pass up this opportunity to explore the opening. He resolved to measure, as best he could, the angle at which he now faced the floorboard. The little ant determined it was about sixty-degrees with respect to the floorboard to his right, and therefore one-hundred-and-twenty degrees with respect to the floorboard to his left.

It was becoming difficult for the little ant to remember all these numbers. He made it easier for himself by dispensing with all the other superfluous pieces of information in his mind which were not essential to bringing the grain of rice to the colony. He systematically disposed of any emotions and any ideas about where he had come from.

Then, returning his mind to the numbers, the little ant realized, if the room was rectangular (he seemed to recall that most rooms were), the line along which the little ant had explored thus far, which ran exactly one-hundred-and-thirteen-thousand-one-hundred-and-twenty-nine steps, was diagonal with respect to the walls of the room. This being the case, the little ant imagined he might amend his plan and, instead of returning back to the center where he would continue in a third direction, he would search along this floorboard until he found a corner of the room. The chances were greater, he reasoned, that he would find a corner if he followed the board to the left. If he found a corner, he could make estimates for the size and the shape of the room, given the measurements he already had. This was assuming, of course, that he would not find the colony behind the opening between the floorboard and the wall.

All this, the little ant thought of, while still standing motionless facing the floorboard with the grain of rice pinched gently in between his mandibles, careful not to adjust even slightly his exact position until he was sure that he had all the measurements he needed. He was sure now. He turned to his left and started to move carefully along the floorboard towards the protruding nail which the little ant assumed would mark an opening to the interior of the wall.

At only two-hundred-and-forty-seven steps from where he had first faced the floorboard, the little ant came to the protruding nail. There was indeed a small opening between the board and the wall where the paint was chipped away. It was roughly the width of three little ants. Peering into the opening, it was like a long dark cave. The little ant was afraid. He dispensed with this emotion as superfluous. The colony might be at the end of this cave, the little ant told himself. He adjusted the grain of rice in between his mandibles, made his way into the cave, and started leftward.

It was dark. There was a thin ray of light that seeped in between the top of the floorboard and the wall. This ray illumined only a small part of the little ant’s path inside the cave. He relied mostly on the sense of the board to his left and the wall to his right, as he occasionally bumped into either side with the grain of rice. The little ant was very sorry to the grain of rice each time that this happened. He tried with all his strength and concentration to avoid these bumps but he had become very hungry and weak as a result. He occasionally faltered to either side as his legs had begun to fail.

After seventy-four steps from the opening of the floorboard, faintly at first, then louder; the little ant could hear a bustle up ahead. At first he was excited. It’s the colony! He told himself. The end of his journey is near! The little ant marched forward with a newfound exuberance and strength. He craned his neck and hoisted the grain of rice high. He thought of seeing the queen and his brothers.

Then the little ant’s exuberant march slowed. He listened closer to the bustle and his stomach turned. He listened to the heavy steps and their rhythm. They were not like ant steps. They were heavy and spaced out. This was something bigger than an ant.

The little ant stopped and stared as deep into the cave as he could. Whatever it was was coming closer, straight towards the little ant, and fast. The little ant took a step backwards, and then another. By the time the hairy fangs became visible in the thin ray of light, the little ant was moving backwards as fast as his legs would carry him. He could have moved faster if he dropped the grain of rice, but he dared not. The spider was very fast and closing the distance between them.

In his mind the little ant displaced his fear and counted his steps backward. Twenty-five … fifteen … five … Just as the ant whipped his backside to the left where he knew he would find the opening, the spider lunged forward and snapped his fangs after the little ant.

Outside the cave, bathed in light, the little ant laid on his back inviting in air through his spiracles. For a brief moment the ant allowed horror at the spider to take the place of his concern for the grain of rice. When he realized the grain was no longer clenched between his mandibles, the ant jumped to his feet only to find that there was something very wrong with one of his front legs. As he tried to support himself, he fell forward onto his right mandible. The spider had severed his right front leg at the joint. A clear liquid seeped out from where the little ant’s leg was detached.

This injury, however, was secondary to his concern for the grain of rice. He looked around, ignoring the pain in his leg. Luckily, the grain was beyond the opening in the floorboard. The little ant limped over and picked up the grain with his mandibles.

The little ant felt his pain only insofar as he needed it to assess his ability to carry on. Combined with his hunger, the loss of blood was now weakening the little ant significantly. He would carry on. There was nothing else to do. With the grain of rice securely in his jaws, the little ant limped along the floorboard in the leftward direction (relative to where he had first faced the board). The little ant shuddered to think that the spider was just on the other side of the board. He could not get out, the little ant told himself. The opening was too small. Besides, he could not think of that. He had to continue on in this direction no matter what.

The little ant carried on. He continued to count his steps. It helped him to ignore the pain in his leg. This would be the last segment of his journey, the little ant knew. He would not be able to return to the center and continue his systematic exploration.

The little ant thought of nothing. He did not even process the information that came in through his eyes. He did not smell. He did not think of anything other than the count of his steps, and increasing the number by moving forward. All the while, clear liquid seeped from his leg.

He carried on like this, until step thirty-thousand-seven-hundred-and thirty-eight since the opening in the floorboard, the little ant ran headlong into another wall. He had reached the corner! Though the little ant could not spare any energy for excitement.

He craned his neck upward and started to climb. Normally, the little ant could have climbed the wall vertically. Impaired as he was without the full function of his right front leg, he was forced to crawl up the corner with his right shoulder relying on one of the walls for support. With his neck craned back as far as possible, he could just barely keep the grain of rice in his mandibles from scraping against the wall. Like this, the little ant climbed.

At several points, he stopped to rest, focusing all his strength on the grip of his claws that held him to the wall. He feared if he did not do this occasionally, he would fall backwards. How high the little ant climbed did not matter, he had no room left in his mind for the fear of his own death. He could not even remember the numbers anymore, not the angles nor the steps he had taken. That was all beside the point now.

The stops for rest grew more frequent until with every step the little ant feared he might let go. Then the wall that made up the left half of the corner, gave way to a countertop. The little ant scrambled onto this flat surface, thankful for the ground to rest his tired legs and the space to adjust his craned neck. The ant rested, with the grain of rice clenched in his mandibles. He would die with the grain of rice in his jaws, he told himself. He felt that death was near.

The little ant got up to his feet. The clear liquid had stopped seeping from his front leg. The little ant wondered if he had any blood left. He wondered if he had already died and he was now just hallucinating. The little ant looked around at what lay on the countertop. He did not recognize anything. The shampoo bottles and electric razors made no sense to him. They were all merely objects that were not his colony, and therefore meaningless.

It was towards the end for the ant. He knew this. His eyes were starting to dim. For the first time in his long journey, the little ant started to lose hope. He knew he only had the energy for a short distance. He crawled towards the row of hair product cans. He stumbled and fell every two or three steps. He made his way behind the cans and laid down on his back. How long he spent like this he did not know. There was almost no light left in the world.

The little ant had been unconscious for some time when he woke with a start. There was another ant leaning over him. The little ant thought that he was seeing himself. It was his spirit, the little ant told himself. His spirit spoke to him. It said, “Well done, brother.” The spirit ant touched his mandibles to the little ant’s. The little ant felt the mandibles. This was not a spirit ant, the little ant realized.

He heard other voices. He turned his head slowly with what little strength he had left. There were a dozen or so ants. The little ant breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned his head back. They were talking about a great beast. Many ants were lost. These were among the few survivors.

With what little strength he had, the little ant opened his eyes. There was another ant leaning over him, assessing him, clicking his mandibles in thought. He watched this ant look away at the others and shake his head. This ant too touched his mandibles to the little ant’s.

The brother ant came back; he seemed to be the leader of the survivors. “I brought the grain of rice,” the little ant said to him, “for the colony.” He took a shallow breath with great effort

The brother ant looked at the little ant, confused. “What do you mean?” asked the brother ant.

“The grain of rice,” whispered the little ant. “I brought it … food … for the colony.”

The brother ant laughed. “That is not a grain of rice, brother! That is an egg. And not just any egg, brother. It is a queen egg.”

The little ant was overcome with warm rapture. He asked himself, how had he not known? But then again, how could he have? He had never before seen a queen egg.

While the little ant was thinking to himself and remembering the encounter with the spider and the climb up the cliff face and how he could have lost the queen egg. He silently thanked the almighty for granting him the strength to deliver the queen egg back to the colony.

The brother ant continued, “We lost our queen in the battle with the great beast. Without her, we were all prepared to die soon. Without a reason to live, we had thought of throwing ourselves from the cliff here. You have delivered life and purpose to us, brother. We will rebuild a new colony for the new queen.”

The rest of the ants gathered around the little ant. An ant much larger and stronger than the little ant now carried the queen egg in his mandibles. The rest of the ants clicked their mandibles in  honor of the little ant. “Sleep now, brother. You have done your duty to the colony.” The little ant relaxed his mandibles and leaned his head back and went to sleep.

Posted on by Cole