Ants

In the tall grass on a spring morning a young boy sat on a picnic blanket. A sharp pain in his foot, he turned to scrape at the skin and noticed a mound of ants nearby. Gleefully he took a piece of bread, placed it near the mound, and watched as the workers carried crumb after crumb to their queen. Then, he took his orange soda and flooded the antpile, watching as the ants were washed clean from their home. The thrill wore off quickly, and he forgot about the ants until, walking back to the car, he stepped in the sticky residue of his mess.

No. 078

Contraband

My grandparents lived beside an orange orchard for a time. In my memory, I hopped the fence and strolled the neat rows of fruited orange trees, scoping routes through their branches. Choosing one, I lifted myself to the lowest-hanging branch, then the next, and the next. Reaching above me, I grabbed a plump fruit from the highest branch, then plunged my nails beneath its flesh, ripping the peel off in large chunks and letting them fall to the ground.

Returning to my grandparents, juice still dripping from the sides of my mouth, my grandmother told me: “You’ll get caught one of these days.”

No. 041

Presence

In the corner of my eye I saw them. Two children sat perched on a staircase, shrouded in bushes and trees. Their muscles taut, they sat inhumanly rigid out of fear of being seen. And yet I saw them through the dark green leaves. I kept walking, allowing them their desired secrecy, but knowing their presence nonetheless. 

No. 032

drought

A well in a drought: parched soil, brown grass, dried-out wooden bucket hanging from a frayed rope. Above in the sky sit white clouds that threaten continued dryness. As a kid I heard the sky is blue from reflecting the ocean, but that’s a misconception. The blue wavelengths scatter across the sky in all directions. Still, looking up I am reminded of vast oceans of water. Sometimes the myths are more comforting.

No. 024