Aaaaaarghhh it's coming.

Aaaaarghhh it's coming.

At first the plane seemed to drop slowly like a paper dart that didn't
quite make it out of the invention yard. Then the dip quickened and
with it all perception of form or shape were lost. To the ant, watching
on the ground, its wings seemed to melt as it first changed into a
shapeless blob, then crawled down the sky like a tragically projected
ball of mercury.
Most bizarrely of all, I was that ant and as the ground quaked beneath
the shadow of the falling silver bird, I ran for cover so fast that
barely one of my six legs touched the ground at the same time. They say
that the wise ant knows to avoid the stone that can be lifted; well
that ant knew nothing when it comes to silver birds. In fact, all the
stones lifted, the ladders to the gods that monkeys and birds call
trees - they lifted too, the mud at the bottom of the swamp, yep that
lifted too. To tell you the truth the whole damn world lifted and then
turned into a raging flower of flame that seemed to grow from what it
grew to and grew to what it had grown from. There was no escape. And
yet I defied the odds. Maybe it just wasn't in my destiny to die that
day? Maybe Mr or Mrs Death just rolled on up and my Guardian Ant, or
whatever you choose to call it, waved its little silver shield and
said, 'Hey get outta here sucka, it ain't his time, so quit botherin'
and leave the little fella alone.'
I've met some freaks in my time, you better believe me. Anyone of
these guys could have been Death. I tell them to push off before I bite
off their feet. That's a good lesson, maybe one of them was Death,
maybe that's why I'm still here today?
So you are asking how did he escape - this mere ant about to be
crushed by a falling plane. Well easy brother, I'll tell you in my own
time. First let me introduce myself. You know tell you a little about
where I'm from and how things work round here. No marks for the fact
that I'm an ant, I told you that already. Beyond that, I live in a land
filled with colourful birds and ladders reaching up to Heaven, huge
sweating swamps of dark mud, beautiful flowers that take an hour to
walk from sweet-scented petal to petal, chattering monkeys that swing
senselessly through the sky and occasionally drop us a banana that
feeds our hill for a day, mountains of inestimable height and girth and
so many other strange attractions and creatures that I cannot hope to
tell you about them all now.
So where was I? Ah yes, how did I survive the silver bird fire? It
still puzzles me but, to cut a long story short, my fortunes became
entwined with those of 'the beast from the fire of the silver bird'.
The fearful blast wrapped us in a cloak of fire and sent us hurtling
through the air to certain death. I relaxed a little, in the knowledge
that my death would be that of a hero and remembered forever in the
stories told in the hill about the fire of the silver bird. As I spun
helplessly through the sky I became aware of another presence other
than that of the searing flames. At first I thought it was that of a
gigantic pink fruit. It wasn't; it was 'the beast from the silver
bird,' which I shall simply refer to as 'Pinky'.
Our fall was broken by a patch of swamp ten thousand ant miles wide.
Sticky black fingers of mud wrestled the flames into submission, the
earth hissed as though full of hidden snakes and above everything Pinky
roared. I was to become familiar with this sound as I hung onto Pinky's
marshmallow hide for day beyond day beyond restless day. All the while,
I looked out for a familiar site or landmark but not once were my
prayers answered. Gradually, the mud loosened from Pinky's hide and his
hideous presence became apparent for all to see. Wherever we travelled,
in these early days, the air quivered with the screech of frightened
monkeys and clap of departing bird wings. I began to give up any hope
of seeing my home again and the familiar image of my bustling anthill
was gradually shunted to some seldom visited backroom in the labyrinth
of my memory.
As days changed to months and those specks in time slowly stretched
themselves out into years Pinky grew. I think he grew anyway; the
difference between a gigantic giant and a huge one is much of a
muchness to a tiny ant. I was too busy trying to stay alive to take
much notice anyway. You might imagine that I would quickly starve
living in such an abhorrent environment as this - I did not. Although
the jungle creatures became familiar enough with Pinky to no longer
scream at his arrival they learnt new tricks. The monkeys, the birds
even the dripping branches above would hurl anything at their disposal
down on Pinky's head. This was good because its sticky spoil gave me
something to eat but bad also because the natural place to hang out in
this pink land was there up on the Pinky's head and I lived in fear of
being crushed by fruit or drowned in sap. I once saw an ant that had
drowned in sap and been petrified in its glassy residue for perpetuity.
As I touched that cruel bead of amber with my feeler and peered deep
into his sightless eyes, all that stared back was the torment of his
lonely destruction. I decided there and then if I had one wish, then it
would be to never share that tiny, clear coffin. I'd rather be consumed
whole by the savage foaming nose of an anteater. Yes there is such a
beast; folklore tells of these creatures and how they drill their
hideous snouts into our holes, crushing ant eggs and tearing out our
queens by their still dripping breasts. Yep, even that death would be
better, certainly better than dying here in some forgotten piece of our
land on the back of Pinky. At times I did fear for my life, such as
when Pinky destroyed or mutilated mosquitoes or flies which landed on
him. Strangely he would ignore me though and let me wander freely about
his vast bulk. Our relationship was almost like an ant might treat an
aphid; I guess we both had something to offer one another; I would eat
away at the rotting fruit pulp on his skin and in return for filling my
belly in this way he would leave me unscathed.
As time blundered carelessly by in its race to steal more innocent
lives various changes began to take place. Pinky finally stopped
roaring and began to walk in a more upright position. Our speed also
increased and as a consequence we began to cover more ground. Sometimes
we moved so quickly that even if we had passed my homeland I still
might not have recognised it. Then, one day, I made a discovery that
hair was growing lower down on Pinky's body. I decided on changing to
this location; not only would I be more likely to catch a glimpse of my
home from down here but I would also be safe from falling fruit.
Besides which, the speed at the top of the body was often so great that
it made me dizzy, and I feared I would lose my grip. I therefore
decided to anchor myself at this new resting place. It was to prove my
undoing.
As I carefully decided upon which hair to make my home, Pinky suddenly
decided to lurch upwards at a peach dangling above the path. Jumping
was a recently acquired habit and on this occasion it caught me by
surprise. I dug my teeth into a soft part of Pinky's flesh in a bid to
save myself from falling. I held fast but then glimpsed the shadow of
his hand a half breath away. My reactions saved me and I jumped like a
flea towards the nearest wiry hair. If I had stayed put then I would
not be here now, as it is I was crushed from the neck downwards. They
say your life passes before your eyes but it didn't. There was no
bursting from the serene safety of my ant egg into the green jungle
light or crawling slowly on my belly as a growing pupa under the hill.
No, the only thing I saw or felt was hate, pure hate for Pinky. This
ridiculous, vile creature had nearly destroyed me but not quite. My
family has always been known as fighters, ever since the day they
clubbed together to sting an anaconda to death as it slithered across
our main highway to the syrup leaf tree. Now it was my time; I swung
there, where I clung, for how long I do not know. Neither do I know
whether my pincers were remained shut by willpower alone or as a
horrific result of my accident. All I know is I stayed exactly where I
was.
This spot I had chosen had other disadvantages which I scarcely wish
to talk about. From near where I hung limply, as though dead, Pinky
would shoot stinking rain and swamp mud that steamed and acted as an
invisible beacon for the most repulsive flies. The trunk from whence
the rain came would also change shape like a bamboo cane, and at these
times Pinky would stare at it as though marvelling at some strange
unseen fruit. None of this helped my predicament and my existence
remained static. The only change was my hatred for Pinky, which grew
and grew and grew, like the greasy lobes of a poisonous fungus, whose
mycelium stretch out limitlessly beneath the jungle floor. My mind
drifted away from day to day necessities such as eating or breathing to
the dark swollen world of revenge where frightening beasts stalk the
land.
Still here, still drifting in and out of consciousness, clinging,
swinging in the breeze like the shadow of a spider's prey, losing all
sense of tense and time. Sticks and leaves flicker in and out of focus,
so tired, so alone in my torment as I dangle here. Then below me, as
though all my nightmares have come true at once, I see my anthill. Not
as I hoped and distantly remembered, but in the hideous process of
being ravaged and destroyed. Pinky froze a small distance away and I
realised that even if I dropped there and then I would never be found.
I continued to cling between the two bleak towers of disbelief
horror.
The beast murdering my comrades, as it ploughed a tunnel ten ants wide
into my sorrowful home, was none other than the anteater. And now that
I saw this childhood terror in the flesh it dwarfed the previous feats
of my young imagination. Even from this distance, I could hear the
screams, the terrible, terrible crunching of ant heads, antennae and
brittle exoskeletons. The beast seemed immune to the ant stings of our
bravest soldiers and continued to consume at its leisure. Pinky
remained still. The focus of his gaze seemed to settle on the ferocious
snout of the beast as it plunged rhythmically in and out of the fuzz of
needles covering my anthill. Pinky took a step forwards and to my
relief and surprise the anteater retreated. At this point the throbbing
bamboo shoot appeared again between Pinky's legs. If Pinky took another
gigantic pace forwards we'd be almost there, almost back at the home I
knew and loved. I closed my eyes and prayed. When I opened them again
and looked down I was right over the dreadful tunnel leading into the
anthill. My pincers opened, as if by their own accord, and I let
go.
I was home at last, time stood still, the once familiar began to wrap
me in its welcoming arms and I breathed the sigh of an old ant smiling
at a new day. The bamboo moved closer, the look in Pinky's eye said it
all, as though, at last he'd found some hidden meaning where no meaning
had been before. I ignored him and looked to my left, where I saw a
young ant who had now grown up, and I think he recognised me just
before he fled. The light faded in the end of the tunnel as the bamboo
moved closer. I lay still, a helpless husk unable to defend my home. At
the tip of the bamboo I saw a huge purple eye for the first time.

** *** * *** **

As I stare into the eye of death I know that my time has come. I
decide to fight on to the end. My hatred for Pinky rises like a
croaking frog's bloated throat in my stomach, and my mouth fills with
the bitter taste of my most potent poison. My pincers open wide as the
eye comes closer. I will not permit this atrocity, this destruction of
my home to continue I will defend it to the end. I snap my pincers shut
on the lid of the eye and inject my poison. In the distance I hear
Pinky's roar spread into the roof of the jungle. White sap engulfs me.
I hope they remember the fearless little ant who fought the giant
bamboo in the anthill.