better than reality

A

So my grandmother is in the family way.

B

Wait. What?

A

She’s preggers.

B

Seriously?

A

Yeah. She decided that she finally had reached an age where she had enough experience and wisdom to really know how to raise a child.

B

But she’s. How old is she?

A

In her 70s. 78 I think.

B

How...

A

In vitro. It kind of experimental and she had to go out of the country to do it. But she loves to travel and hadn’t been to southern mexico. So you know, she went. And when she got back, well, I already told you.

B

Your grandmother… seriously. That’s ridiculous. There is no way a woman her age...

A

Hey. I think my grandma is the best person to know what her body can and cannot handle.

B

But she won't live long enough to really raise the kid.

A

You don’t know that. She could be vibrant and viable until she’s 120. Maybe this kid is the thing to keep her young at heart.

B

She should have grandchildren to do that. Or great-grandchildren.

A

Dude. I’m not ready to have a kid. She’s always been one to take initiative when she wants something. I proud of her really.

B

You’re going to have an uncle-

A

Or an aunt! Why do you default to male?

B

Whatever. You are going to have a … Your mom is going to have a sibling nearly thirty years younger than her own kid.

A

Weirder things have happened.

B

Name one.

A

UFO abductions! People claim those all the time. My grandmother’s child is at least real.

B

And still viable for front page tabloid.

A

Which is so cool. She said I could pose with her when they come to take the pictures. I’m hoping that Oprah doesn’t hear about this before Weekly World News! That’d just ruin everything.

B

You need your head examined.

A

Why? Is something wrong with it?

B

You think your 78 year old grandmother having a baby is a great opportunity to get on the front page of a publication that no one believes. Yeah. Something is definitely wrong.

A

Well, if it becomes something legit, I won’t be one of the few people in on the joke.

B

I still can’t believe that she’s actually pregnant.

A

That’s probably good.

B

What?

A

That you don’t believe it. Because it’s not true. She’s not pregnant. She has Alzheimer’s. My mom thinks I’m not handling it well, but I think I’m doing okay.

B

No. You need help. That’s was totally fucked. Why would you do that?

A

There are so many better stories to add to her life than the real one. I just want her end to be as fantastic as I know she could have dreamed it up.

B

But don’t fuck with people like that.

A

It doesn’t really work if you don’t.

B

I … You are messed up. I gotta go. Call me when you can act like a human being.

A

Understandable. Still, I could have been in grocery lines everywhere!

One of grandmother's was diagnosed this week. I may expand on this scene, but I'm thinking next week might be stories of her and for that are better than reality.

ooookaaaay

yelling transforms to hipster ennui
throwing books become percolated coffee
stripping canvas morphs to dancing guitars

The girl that quit or was fired was back at the coffee shop. I wonder what happened. They were playing guitars as I left. Previous poem is here.

where the fuck are my keys

Three times
Checked for the keys
Remember locking the door
Keep there
Each time
Keep checking
Still there
Last time
No more checking
You can always call the second set
If these
Spontaneously combust

I've only locked myself out twice. *knock wood* However, I occasionally get obsessive about checking for my keys. More often, I think "Shit, I know I left them." Then I check, and they are there. Maybe I just like the surprise/stress?

let me sleep

The muffled roll pierced the window and invaded her sleeping ear. that quick intake of breath coincided with the opening eyes. For the love. the bass vibrated the glass and eher blurred eyes saw 2:00 loud and red on the digital alarm clock. One minute later the watch beeped two quick beeps. She could never get it to stay on time. Three lours left to sleep. The car stereo serenaded the street and crumbled her of more unconciousness. Why hadn't they left? The green traffic light coloured her wall. Jaw tightened, shoulders tensed. Through the blinds, two people making out. Couldn't they do that without a soundtrack? Jesus. She contemplated yelling at them or throwing an empty beer bottle at the car but decided on cursing under her breath and letting her blood pressure rise.

Yes, this happened to me. Yes, I decided to just be angry rather than actually do anything. Yes, I still do that sometimes. Yes, it makes me angrier that I do that.

imagining virgina

I didn't know I needed to get out, experience something ordinary or at least something lighter than the Concrete City Madhouse. Nightly I dreamed of fresh air and open spaces and neighbors unable to hear through the walls. Maybe that should have been a clue.

It was impossible to stroll, especially in the evening. I couldn't imagine walking without my entire body listening, without constantly knowing where to run, without worrying that I wouldn't have time to scream. But I didn't carry a ready weapon because that would mean "they" were wining. Or maybe it was because I started wishing something would happen. I don't think I'm alone in this. You live with a palpable fear long enough, you get to where you just wish for it because at least then it would be done. You can deal with it and move on. The worry and fear, now justified, could leave. You - I - would be liberated from that specter.

I know this train of thought is bullshit. And I tried to change my thoughts. I've had many conversations with myself. How could violence reduce fear? Why am I casting myself as this passive victim? Why can't you even see yourself as a survivor in this made-for-TV movie you play in your head? My answer was constantly, "I don't know."

When the opportunity to leave the Madhouse happened, it was without anything I would define as a decision. I followed a lover who moved on a few months later. I remained.

The air here is crisp and loves filling a person's lungs. Grey is not the dominant color motif. It is still a city, and I still don't own a car, but I can see over the buildings to the world beyond its borders. I can look people in the eyes. My fears are not solved, but they finally do not infect my entire life. For the first time in my adult life, I call my location home.

I was campaigning in New Hampshire for John Edwards last year. My group met this amazing woman who ran a local diner. She had lived in New York City and had moved with her family soon(ish) after the Stonewall Riots. This monologue/story uses that bit of information as the starting point. I have images of the larger story this may become, but I need to let it grow in my brain for a bit longer.

seasonal poems

spring

I shed three teardrops on the dead earth
A tree blooms
Grey fades and parts its curtain
Vibrance
Unlocked: it is the world
Barefoot leaps across the wild plain
Drumbeats and heartbeats
Full breath, full sigh
I live again


summer

Pregnant trees and dark, deep oceans
Yellow sun burns
Floating out past the day
Caressed
The senses unlocked and mad with sensation
I am infinite.


fall

Brown, red, and gold
delicately float on the breeze
Balance precariously on my
head, shoulder, foot
The gentlest movement
continues the journey down
Crumpled siblings reunite
underfoot
I dance to their song


winter

My head a grey of snow
Dormant trees tap at my door
Their long fingers
Begging away the cold
I hide beneath the blankets

I wrote these for my family. They were going to be Christmas gifts. I was going to take pictures of each season in New York and make a collage with the poem in a frame or shadowbox. Time got away from me that year, and they all ended up with books.

a previous draft

The separation exsanguinated my life, destroyed my hearth, deleted my colors. The landscape a new, sharp, painful white. Lines blurred evn to my own skin. No longer was there contrast between me and nothing. My own definition re-entered the miasma where direction does not even know itself. Mountains and oceans merged and thereafter imploded and left me crouching on the non-earth waiting for the vertigo to pass, feabily straining to keep me even on four limbs. The dry heaving reenforced my own emptyness, blowing white sand onto the blank canvas. Impalled by nothing. Before completely succumbing to the death of Life.

Heart shattered into Humpty Dumpty pieces and settled in my stomach to grow.

The drug floods, overwhelming the system. I moved. I ran. I left bloody footprints and redefined land and sky.

This is the start of this is false. It's nice to see where things start. Also to remember that editing and work are very important. I think maybe I can come back to this image of bloody footprints as the start of rebuilding. I wonder where it will go?

off the cuff poem about snow

blue bridges reach across wintry rivers to white canvasses
erased cities sleep for the moment they are reimagined

for a moment i almost let the snow erase me too
but there are tracks to follow and footprints to make

The opening image comes from a walk where I saw this picture:

The rest... off the cuff could also equal "out of my ass."

imprisoned wisdom

High pitched noise
piercing             familiar
Comforting but now I have a headache
A giant pressure
                  just above my eyes
My head trying to give birth
                                            a new Athena
shoving exhaling wondering
her way out of my body
But my skull remains hard and solid
      and the goddess of wisdom
shal just have to reain inside
awhile longer
I am the one who chooses
to split my head

This poem was written while I was in college, probably junior year.

quick scene from a life

"Jesus, Jeffrey! Stop eating paste! How many times do I have to tell you?"
"But I like it! It's not hurting anyone. Look, it's the non-toxic kind."
"You're thirty-eight years old. You should be huffing glue, not eating it."
"I don't want to huff glue; I just want to taste it sometimes."
"Just don't let the kids see you."
Randall stepped out of the closet and shut the door. Of all the things to miss before committing your life to someone, this was probably not the strangest but in the scope of his own world, it was definitely in the top three. Out the window, the sun was dipping behind the trees. Their two girls would be home from soccer practice in about twenty minutes. Randall went out the kitchen door and back into the chicken pen. He did not want chicken tonight; did not want to have to kill it, and definitely did not want to pluck it. And what else would they have with it? His eyes glided over each bird before he sighed and went back to the house. He picked up the phone and made a call.
Twenty minutes later, the two girls whirlwinded through the house to their rooms. They changed and sat down at their desks. Just a little bit of homework tonight. They would definitely be done before dinner and American Idol. Stacy was helping Jess with a math problem when they heard the doorbell ring.
"Girls, Jeffrey! Pizza is here!"
The sisters leaped up from chairs and tore down the stairs.
"I can't believe we're having pizza on a school night!"
"Daddy, you're the best!"
"It won't happen all the time, but everyone has been working very hard lately. I thought this would be a nice respite."
"What's a respite?"
"A break."
"Very good, Stacy. Now can you two set the table and pour the drinks while I go get your other father?"
"Yes, sir."
Randall caught Jeffrey on the stairs, took one look at his face and said, "Sweetheart, if you are going to keep doing that, could you at least wash your face before showing yourself?"
"Where is it?"
"Everywhere. You never were a neat one. Now go wash up."

This piece is another of those three word ones. I'm finding them at least to be good practice at just running with an idea or a character.

start of a character

He is an adult cisgender male. The top left side of his face and head have been carved out and make a canyon in his face. Skin has healed; this gully was made over much time with many wounds. Over the gully is a moderate piece of wood from which dangles a medieval axe that pendulums just above the bottom of his ravine. It is this axe that has altered his face. From his right side, you can tell he is quite becoming.

The axe must stay there and swing for the duration of his life to keep him from his Violence. When his thoughts turn, the blade dips or moves left or right just slightly enough to draw blood and etch another piece from his head. He has lost the use of his left eye. It stares at the questioner. The V-shape cut into the iris gives it an eternally anger gaze.

He clothes himself in black. Each article is covered in straps that seem to do a hidden task - more than decoration. The shirt is tucked tightly and precisely into the trousers. He does not wear a belt. His shoes have no laces. You wonder if he is wearing socks. Everything individually and as a whole gives the impression that removing even a single item takes far more time than you would be willing to commit.

The loss, he says, of time, of his eye, is worth the control.

This character definitely has a story . I just wanted to get my image of him down or started. If anyone out there wants to draw him, I'd definitely be interested in seeing an interpretation.

scene about a dead friend

1

we used her. To make money. Not the most inconsequential thing in the world, but wouldn’t it be nice if it was?

2

how?

1

what?

2

how did you use her to make money?

1

"Someone’s died! Donate! Make her life mean more! Makes yours mean more in the process!" Not the most original formula.

2

and you split the money?

1

no. donated. To whatever charity was helping to cure her illness.

2

then not really a con.

1

no? Then why weren’t we doing it before? ‘how could we have known? Now we are doing our little part because we know, because we can.’ We could have done something before. Not necessarily that specifically. But we didn’t raise money. Volunteer. Nothing. And after the diagnosis, we did. For one moment in time we pretended to look outside of ourselves, think about someone else. Weren’t we just salving our own pain? I know. It’s not a bad thing to do, but recognition is important: it was never about her. Even when she died – when we found out she had died – we didn’t repeat the altruistic exercise. Once was quite enough to absolve ourselves from a deeper part of hell. Why? Why didn’t we think to do it again? It’s not like it would have been an original thought/idea? But we couldn’t even make that jump. I couldn’t. but then the face stares back at me again and I think it. More more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more. Just something. Just something. Something beyond this nothing. Beyond the forgetfulness. I want to take back the forgetfulness. Slate clean. No. slate was already clean. What do I mean?

2

see her again?

1

no. it’s not that. I mean she didn’t call us either… Maybe her forgiveness? But it’s not that either.



I want to have not just let her go. I want to have fought. Why didn’t I fight for her? Even to just see her one more time? Why did I let her go? Why did I just let her go?

This scene is from the script I was working on about my friend in college that passed away. It's not finished, mostly because I have a hard time finishing things (from Writer ADD rather than block).

um, what?

what the fuck happened
i got my coffee
chaos
books thrown to windows
in puddles under the overflowing sink

a fur tossed on the chair
painting ripped from the frame

now i have to pee
cross the mess or go home
but i'm not finished here
pity

I was in my local coffee shop when one of the workers either was fired or quit and then proceeded to throw a temper tantrum (or that's how it appeared to me) as she gathered her things and left.

DJPMUFA - Part Two

The next mornin’, Brooke’s momma made a full breakfast to celebrate the Twins…Almost’s … uh, triumph? The families gathered around the table and blessed the food to the nourishment of their bodies. Butter melted and flowed over the homemade buttermilk biscuits. Brooke forked a sausage straight from the serving dish to her mouth, causing both mommas to spit all three of her names out. Scrambled eggs were passed around and pancakes with syrup and gravy and Good Lord, this is making me hungry. Once all the items had made the rounds, everyone dug in. After only three bites, Wes’s momma lifted her coffee mug to her lips and sipped thoughtfully.

“Is there a drama club at y’all’s school?”

Wes started to answer.

“Honey, finish chewin’ and swallow before you talk. There’s no need for what you put in your mouth to be shown to everyone at the table.”

While Wes prepared to speak, Brooke’s momma agreed that a drama club was just what these children needed (their daddy's agreed too, but no one was listenin’ to them). It was the absolute perfect venue to channel all that creative energy. The school was well out of earshot of the neighborhood, but of course they didn’t say that.

“I’m not sure, Momma. I’ve never heard anyone mention it, and we read a play version of Peter Pan last year, remember? I read Wendy and Brooke read Nanny?”

“I should have ready Peter but Mrs. Johnson was relivin’ the time she played Peter in a park in Atlanta and had to fly by climbing up and jumping out of trees.”

“That’s right. Well, we need to find out. And if there isn’t one, we’ll just have to find out how y’all can start one.”

The plan was set. Breakfast finished with discussions of the day’s plans. Brooke and Wes were going to rehearse their routine. Their daddy’s were going to see if they could get a tee time or a check out the hardware store or go to the rifle range or hangout at Sears. The Mommas remembered they had a whole day of shopping to take care of and would the Twins…Almost be okay here by themselves?

“ABSOLUTELY!”
“Just … try to keep it down. For the neighbors.”

“We’ll try but we can’t make any promises.”

“When the Spirit moves you…”

“Yes. Well, try.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After everyone had showered, dressed and started their days, the Spirit most definitely visited the children and that Spirit moved and moved and moved them. The local mall had record sales and record amounts of loitering that day. It even beat the holiday rush. If they had known the cause, I’m guessing the two seven years olds could have been gainfully employed until at least their 8th birthdays running people out of their neighborhoods for the day.

So I'm going to keep working on this piece and posting more of the story. The coming parts will be only first or maybe second drafts, but I'll try to edit a whole story together once I have the whole thing out of my head and on to the computer screen.

a start of a moment

My suicide note would read: "Everyone abandons me. Now it’s my turn.

Where am i?"

That’s the punch line
Your suicide note has a punch line?
Yes. Leave them guessing. Maybe then they won’t forget fully that i was here.

Everyone leaves.
Yes.
Why are you telling me this?

So you won’t leave. But you will, and when it happens, i’ll just feel stupid and you can justify it by telling yourself that i was just fucking crazy. You don’t need that in your life. You need to move on. i need to move on. You will know what’s best for me then. But i won’t because you’ll be gone and you won’t have left a note.

You think I would tell you what I think is best for you in a dear john – jane – note?

No you wouldn’t and that’s the problem. i have nothing to be a light into my own confusion. Words and conversations at some point will disappear and i will be left with the note i wrote to myself. Where am i? maybe i need to go somewhere else to figure out where i am now. My fantasies are all about disappearing. Not completely or maybe completely. Just gone.

I’m here now and you want to run away or you want me to go away?

No. that’s not what i want. Exactly. i want to disappear without losing you. i want you to stay the same. The cake and eating paradigm. i want to be alone and come back as someone i can be around and someone you couldn’t help but be around. But the waiting. i don’t think i'm worth the wait until i return from the waiting. And even then, who knows.

I want to say that you are worth the wait and that I can’t help but be around you, but I can’t remain static. If you go, I will want to wait. I will want to.

And it’s not enough. So i’ll stay here until i drive you away.

What if I don’t let you?

Now we just sound cliché. i’ll never you leave you. i would think at this point somewhere you know that resistance is futile.

I’m just saying it doesn’t have to happen that way.

i know it doesn't but i want you understand this part of me. i'm hoping you will see me. i'm hoping for – god – i’m hoping for change. To break a pattern or some shit. i'm hoping you stay. i’m so horrid at this. i sound like a big cheesy corn dog. i want to roll my eyes so high up they get stuck. No other gesture could capture me right now.

I would stick around to see that.

This is a scene that I wrote that I haven't done anything with yet. Worth exploring further?

poem about the beach

butterfly stretches out on hand
fish ploip and catch surface bugs

water tickles the sides of shells
sunlight plays the melody of colour
unpredictable beat of wave

overstimulated dogs scream excitedly at unmedicated children who squeal at the flood of their own senses
teens take on the duties of suntan lotion and napping

too many couples stroll and pick up that perfect shell
emblem of the day, their love
proof

It is cold. I miss the beach. The beach I grew up going to was hit by Hurricane Ike this year.

excerpt from conversations with myself in the form of my mother

1

Maybe I drink so much because I have to force so many things about myself down, hide them. We don't want the neighbors to see. God forbid I'm not perfect. God forbid I'm human.

2

That's right. Of course it's my fault. Couldn't be your fear of looking eye to eye with the mirror. Definitely not. You've never been afraid of being brutally honest with yourself. So obviously it's me.

1

You can't handle me - who I am.

2

And you can't handle that I can't handle it.

1 or 2
(whoever earns it or however best it works for a production)

I can't I need you to be the image of you. I need you to rage against, to push, to love, and to fear losing above all others. If you morph or change or just shift outside of what I see as your path, I'll lose this force and guide and I , what if I don't like you or can't love you? What if I can? I could lose myself in your change. I could lose you. I have no idea if I'm brave enough either way.

2

Button's undone.

1

Dammit. I knew this shirt was too small. Do you have a safety pin?

2

No. I may have a paper clip though. No, just a bobby pin.

1

Think it'll work?

2

Maybe. Let's see. You're wearing an undershirt.

1

Yes.

2

Just unbutton the top and wear it open.

1

I can't do that.

2

Why not?

1

It has a stain on the boob. (pause) I don't like this.

2

Well, I like having you home.

1

I know. It's just so confining.

2

You can relax and not have to worry so much. Take some time and reset or something like that.

1

It feels like failure.

2

It does not.

1

It does.

2

Please. It's not failure, just a respite.

1

It's failure.

2

You are not a failure.

1

Please.

2

You are not a failure.

1

How could you possibly understand?

2

You are not a failure.

1

You have to say that. And why not? What isn't failure about this? does it look like I've accomplished anything? I've run away. Tucked my tail and fled. I let myself be defeated.

2

If you've been defeated, then you are a failure.

1

Jesus. That's helpful.

2

Well. Are you done? Actually totally and completely given up forever more? Are you?

1

I don't know.

2

Everything's in such stark contrast right now. Success, failure. It's not the question. I think you need time to ... I don't know. Heal, maybe? Think? Something. You just need need time without worry and stress. I can give that to you. I can't solve this for you, but I can give you that. So, either decide to take that time or decide to abandon everything and move on.

1

I wish I knew...

If you can't tell, I write a lot when working out the current crazy living in my head. Saves on the therapy bills (sometimes).

my tree

The trees used to dance for me, particularly this one. Full branches, set back in the middle of a pasture. During spring and summer you could see it revel in its own foliage. Driving by in my car, it would twirl, showing its plumage. But for a shoulder, I would have stopped. I couldn't keep my eyes from the tree and luckily the road was more often empty than not.

Once I saw that first, most beautiful tree spin and show off, I saw them all. Each dance similar but changed and new in the next tree. So alive and so joyful.

But they don't dance any more. I don't know if I got older or if they got older. I drive by that same pasture at the same time and that first tree tries and I watch. For every failed start, I just add hope to the next time I drive past my tree.

This is a postcard to my favourite tree. I used it as a monologue, only the last paragraph was improved.

soul visions

Oh! Cut my hair
drain my essence
lobotomize my life
empty my pain
the angels wings must burst the membrane or dissolve my acid soul

you are my sunshine my only sunshine you make me happy when skies are grey you'll never know dear how much I love you please don't take my sunshine away

don't you want to vomit your soul to see what it is you've been feeding?

i think my soul might wear assless chaps and old tennis shoes

I don't really remember when I wrote this, but it was probably within the last two years. Sometimes I just have things pop in my head and hopefully I'm lucky enough to be near paper and pen.

new york gargoyle

Jaas stared down from his perch on St. John the Divine. Amsterdam Avenue had such a personality these days. Warm weather did such wonders for the city. Gone were the attempts at making overstuffed down coats look like anything but a defense from the horrid wind tunnels that cut through nearly any clothing. The streets overflowed with colour from the trees and the Columbia University students. Light hoodies announcing Brooklyn covered short sleeve shirts or tank tops; skirts, sarongs, shorts danced against thighs that begged for a deeper colour from the sun; and the shoes came out of their boot rut. Nighttime brought even more fantastic outfits. Jaas dripped a few drops of old rainwater out of his mouth, the closest thing to tears.

"Rivet," he said, "I've been watching this city for over 100 years. I've seen so many changes, and wonderful as they may be, they sadden me."

Rivet cooed and pigeon-toed her way on to Jaas's back. She had heard these words many times over the years, but her friend needed her to listen again. A couple below kissed each other on both cheeks and departed: one into the cathedral, one continuing uptown.

"I've never felt the touch of another's lips, and I never will."

Rivet gently pecked some grit and pieces of leaf from the crook of Jaas's neck.

"I've never left this wall. There is so much world out there, and I am stuck here forever."

Rivet bent down to Jaas's ear and sang New York City. The green of Central Park and the attitude of Williamsburg, the life of Harlem and the tragedy of downtown. It was a plotless sweeping song. People below stopped to listen to the crazy pigeon and smiled, because no matter how long you had been here or how jaded you got, this city could still surprise you. Jaas listened and saw all of the places in the song, but a journey of imagination would not satisfy him.

"But I want to see it. Really see it," he whispered, "A century of change in this small place is just not enough when there is so much more. I want to walk around, wear a thousand different colours. I don't want to be made of stone. I want to have friends and lovers and to never ever be alone. I hate this life. I want something more. I deserve something more."

Rivet fluffed her feathers in frustration, climbed onto Jaas's head and pooped. There are times to be kind, and there are times when your best friend just needs a good kick in the pants. She told Jaas that one day she would be gone. That every person below would be gone. The world would move on and maybe remember but probably not. In a century, Jaas would still be here. Watching. Remembering. Seeing the story on a grander scale than anyone living it. Wanting more is good. Wanting more to the point of self-hatred is destructive. Jaas could no more be a moving being than Rivet could be a cat.

"I know."

The pigeon brushed the gargolye's head with her feathers and offered a deal. She would bring the story of New York every evening to Jaas, and Jaas would tell her the story of this street from as far back as he knew.

"I bet your story'll be better than mine."

Rivet pooped.

This is another three word story from a co-worker. If you are interested in submitting your own three random words, you can email them to the address at right or leave them in the comments.

the ritual

the ritual
wake up
stretch
resist the snooze button
pee
disrobe
turn on the water
wash hair, face, body
rinse
towel dry curls
robe
drop laundry in basket
brush teeth
inspect face
pluck stray eyebrows
begin make-up application
base, powder, eyes, cheeks, brows, lashes, lips
arrange hair and dry
stretch control top pantyhose up left leg, right leg, torso.
does it roll down?
skip breakfast
get dressed
pencil skirt, blouse, thin belt, three inch heels
earrings, necklace, rings, brooch
check nail polish for chips
twirl in front of full length mirror
grab purse
go meet day

This piece was for a theatre piece I was involved in about feminism. This draft is the first one before adding any actors. The alternate ending was "grab axe/destroy the patriarchy".

habitat itchy breakfast

The ants gathered that morning outside of what was left of their mound. Constant vibration from somewhere nearby had flattened the conical shape they had spent months perfecting. They had finally found a place far from human children with their obsessive need to kick and pound ant homes and now this. They couldn't catch a break.

"We have to do something."

"What the hell is that noise?"

"The kids can't sleep."

"Queen is annoyed."

"I'm hungry."

"We have more things to worry about than your hunger, Abby."

"Let's just go see if we can find the problem."

They scattered from their home, taking in the environment through their antennae and leaving a scent trail behind them. Abby ran in to Jess, again, and then stealthily trailed Mya. She really didn't like being alone. The group generally headed northeast toward the construction site causing all of the noise and the destruction. It took them half of the day to travel the fifty feet to the chainlink fence with a sign announcing the construction of a new Habitat for Humanity home.

The seven ants marched in without a fearful thought. What's to fear when you have no idea what you'll find or how you'll stop the destruction of their home? With the vibrations now seeming to come from all directions and shaking their bodies, Abby lost track of Mya and struck out on her own. She was lifted off her six little feet for a moment when a truck drove by. She was close. She had to be. But she ran into an obstacle, something wooden. She tried to move the object and then simply started climbing it. Soon she was at another obstacle and had to climb that. Upside down, verticle and finally right side up. Forward until she found FOOD! Her scent trail changed to alert her friends of her find. The vibrations were a distant memory. Home was second place. Here was a meal. Abby picked up a blueberry muffin crumb and headed back off the picnic table. Jess and Mya were on the ground.

"Food. Follow my trail."

"What about the vibrations?"

"If we get food, does it matter?"

"Yes."

"C'mon. We can rebuild the mound. We've done it a million times, and we'll do it a million more, but there is a smorgasbord up there!"

Mya sighed. Really, what else could they do? They were ants. At least they could get a prize for their troubles, so they started up the table leg.

Jake needed a break. He had been hauling bags of concrete mix for an hour. A cup of coffee and another doughnut would definitely improve his mood. His boot squished the mud next to drink table, the print filling with dirty water. Once at the food table, he reached for a Boston Creme, his favourite.

"Dammit. Fucking ants."

He grabbed the ant spray from the end of the table, sent Jess and Mya flying off the table, and pushed the food away from the direction of the spray. The insecticide coated the top of the table and then went down the legs and on the ground around the entire food setup. Abby, unknowingly, made it to a safe zone and continued leaving her Food This Way scent trail.

Jake finished spraying the area, grabbed his doughnut and sat down. As he ate, his arms started itching. He grunted in frustration. Everytime he saw a bug, he would itch for hours thinking it was on him. Every. single. time.

"Fucking ants."

I had a co-worker give me three random words to inspire something. This story is the result.