From ANT PEOPLE
That was before the Ant People came, though. The Ant People
come and twist the tops off all the fire hydrants. The Ant
People bite trees in half, with their giant ant jaws; the
trees fall and cut power lines, crush cars. People run around
in the street, Help! Help! they all scream, while the Ant
People storm through the aisles in the supermarket, smash
all the ladders at the firehall. The Ant People start fires.
Their six buggy, horny legs and their squishy, slimy abdomens.
They build an ant-hill, in the parking lot of the recreation
centre, out of mattresses and car seats, chesterfields, deep-freezes.
The ant-hill towers up into the sky and everybody hollers
and hides. Why, oh why, they holler, Why did these awful Ant
People come? When will they leave?
I hide in the gully, in the old tool shack. I cover the
windows with some old classified ads, and make a fire, like
Mullen’s dad taught me. Building up a little teepee
out of twigs. It gets pretty loud at night, down in the gully,
with all the burning and hollering and eating alive up the
hill. I cover myself in old newpaper and the red sky shines
through my newspaper curtains. I wonder if Mullen and his
dad got away from the Ant People? I bet them and the Russians
high-tailed it out, drove up on the sidewalks in Mullen’s
dad’s pick-up truck, running over Ant People, kicking
them in their six ugly eyes when they tried to climb on the
running boards. I bet they’re all out in British Columbia
by now, sleeping under the stars, in the box of the pick-up