Anthills by Jeremy Kniola

The colony burned. Flames scorched the mound of pine needles, smoking out workers from their subterranean dwelling. On the ground little black bodies smoldered. Those still alive scattered from the laser beam intent on eradicating their kind.

At the helm of his spacecraft, General Lance Litman watched the destruction unfold. Soon the aliens would surrender and Earth would be saved from invasion. The President would award him a medal for courage. His name would become synonymous with heroes in history books.

Through a magnifying glass Lance focused the sun’s white rays on an anthill at the edge of the patio. A mass genocide orchestrated by a ten-year old with a mean streak.

Die, alien scum, die, he shouted with glee.

The screen door flew open. His mom walked out in her dirty, checkered apron. Dust powdered her poofy auburn hair white. She pointed the ostrich feather duster at him.

With the sun behind her, she looked like a cowgirl challenging him to a gunfight. Lance swore he saw a tumbleweed roll between them.

Why aren’t you cleaning your room? she asked. I told you to do it an hour ago.

In Lance’s mom’s world, Sunday was cleaning day. Rain or shine, healthy or sick, she religiously performed chores like a good Catholic obeying the Sabbath.

But I don’t want to.

I don’t care what you want.

Lance reached for his pistol, but Mom was quicker on the draw. He clutched his heart, spun in circles, and collapsed to the ground, bellowing loudly — Aaagghhh! — until his last breath.

Mom stuck her hands on her hips like she was sliding her gun back into the holster. I’m not horsing around. You better hop to it or you can forget playing video games later.

Getting up, Lance stomped out the tiny fires and meandered into the house. As he entered, his mom handed him a garbage bag, a roll of paper towels, and a bottle of Windex. He started to make a fuss, but she wouldn’t hear it. Everybody has to pull their weight around here, she said, dusting the china cabinet. Lance headed toward his bedroom, or cell as he now pictured it, feeling the weight of the ball and chain attached to his ankle.

As he passed the kitchen, his older sister, S.A.R.A.H., or Stupid Analog Robot Algorithmic Humanoid, was scrubbing the fridge, wearing silver latex gloves that stretched to her elbows. Two antennas poked out of the top of her head. When she sneered, light gleamed off the metal in her mouth. She clunked across the tile to block his path, shoes squeaking like they were in need of oil.

Thanks for helping, dickwad, she said in her monotone automated voice.

Lance wished S.A.R.A.H. were installed with an OFF button. She could be so annoying sometimes. Calculating all the chores she got stuck doing. He tried to pass, but she wouldn’t let him through. When he told her to get out of the way, she retracted her arms and said, make me, numb nuts.

Raising the Windex bottle, Lance sprayed S.A.R.A.H. in the face. Sparks shot from her eyes and her body shuddered as her circuits malfunctioned. A warning alarm cried — Mom! — until it lost any semblance of the word. Mom! Mum! Muuuh!

Mom stormed around the corner, a tornado of indignation. Laaannnce!

Lance darted around his sister, hurdled over the vacuum, collided with the mop sticking out of the closet, regained his balance, ran down the hallway and dove into his bedroom to the cheers of the crowd in his head. He raised his arms in victory, but the victory was short lived. His mom called for him to COME BACK THIS MINUTE.

A mound of clothes lay on his floor. It reminded Lance of the anthill. Concentrating hard, he mutated. His chubby torso segmented into three sections. His skeleton turned inside out. Two extra limbs grew from his bellybutton. Claws morphed from his hands and feet. Feelers poked out of his forehead. They detected movement coming from the hallway. His mom approached. Through his compound eyes he watched her mouth stretch into a tube equipped with elongated tongue.

You’re in big trouble, mister, the anteater said.

Frightened, Lance dug a tunnel in the anthill. He burrowed deeper and deeper until he thought he was safe.

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Jeremy Kniola resides in Chicago, where you may find him writing at one of many local cafes. His fiction has recently appeared in Dogzplot, The Big Jewel, and Literary Orphans. He wears glasses.

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One thought on “Anthills by Jeremy Kniola

  1. Reblogged this on ianstarttoday and commented:

    latest piece from my humor mag…

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