The ants are invading. I can feel them now, slipping in through the cracks of this old house. The cold is beating them. The air is sharp and crisp and it drives them to me. They think that I won’t notice them; a ravaged Cheerio here, a feeler poking out from behind the cookbooks there. They seem to say “you can live with us,” but this is MY place, my home, and I am under siege. This is war. I hide the ant trap inside a paper bag marked “candy” to entice them. They rub their feelers in anticipation. Oh! How terrible the sound! I spray their lines with pure poison mist. Comrades falling over, the others struggle on, only to fall into silent death. I am victorious, standing in my kitchen, daring them to reform their ranks. Feelers moving slowly, slower still, their black clicking stops. The silence is cold as death.
The Battle of Continental Street