by Mark Ifanson
Thursday. We rock and sway as the storm pummels the tree our family knows as Home. Rain slaps against leaves, twigs cry out in pain, larger branches snap and plunge to the ground. I assure my brood that there have been many storms before this, and our Home can withstand the onslaught. The younger ones cower despite my assurances. The older ones have weathered many storms with me and know our Home is safe. Peace returns at sunset. We rest.
Friday. The tempest resumes, angry and brutal, punishing us with its howling wind. As I strive to comfort the younger ones the forces around us amplify beyond anything I have experienced before and we crash to the ground. The rain has seeped into the caverns and tunnels we have carved in this tree, and everything is tilted at an eccentric angle. We are frightened; this is all new to us. But it is late, so we rest.
Saturday. My Foragers report there’s much turmoil in the world beyond; our pheromone trails have been violated and our paths to sustenance are scattered. Their search for older trails is in vain; all seem to have disappeared. New sources of nourishment will be needed soon. I am their Queen, and I worry for us all: the older, the younger, the larvae, and the eggs. We rest as our few remaining food stores rapidly deplete.
Sunday. New noises and vibrations approach from a distance. These are sounds made by those who dwell outside, the Humans, bringing with them the commotion of their world. As the reverberations become overwhelming our Home bursts open, allowing daylight to enter our passageways and retreats. Many die indiscriminately. All are frightened. Even I. Then our Home moves chaotically, repeatedly spinning, rising, and falling. An extended episode of thunderous uproar is followed by a brief respite; then chaos resumes. At dusk, the havoc ceases and silence returns. We occupy only a small, inverted portion of our Home. Those of us still alive, rest.
Monday. My few surviving Foragers report limited food availability. There are many hungry families here, not just ours, scattered among the forest waste. The hunt for other survivors from our Home is unsuccessful. We rest.
Tuesday. We continue to search while the Humans accumulate an ever-growing pile of damaged vegetation around us. We sometimes encounter others of our species who don’t possess the scent of our Home, as well as others not like us but who also dwell in the trees. My Foragers are near exhaustion from their hunt for new food supplies. We wait. We rest.
Wednesday. We wake to heat and smoke as the surrounding mound of ruined timber and brush begins to combust. Many scatter, but there’s no safe direction to flee. The air fills with the acrid odor of my children’s burning digestive juices. The last of my Soldiers assist me in the final defense of our few remaining larvae and eggs. We fail. We will rest forever. Our Home was never safe.
~
Bio:
Mark Ifanson writes in various genres. His work has found a home — or will soon be residing — at Bewildering Stories, BULL lit mag, Maudlin House, Penumbra, Points in Case, Fast Pop Lit, 101 Words, and other literary neighborhoods. You can check out more of his work at https://www.chillsubs.com/profile/markifanson.
Philosophy Note:
This story was inspired by a real-life event. An old tree blew down in our yard (or garden as some would call it). As I started to remove it, thousands of ants emerged from tunnels they had carved in the wood. I suddenly realized that, for them, this was their entire universe, which was now imperiled. It made me wonder about life on Earth from a non-human perspective.
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