This Means War

A huge black vortex is getting closer. Looking up at it, one sees nothing. Nothing but darkness. If only this freeway led somewhere. Just giant expanses as far as the eye can see. The scent is still fresh, but barely. Every few hours, food is dropped from above, seemingly out of nowhere. Vagabonds and scavengers, scouts and generals, each play their role. Working toward one unending goal; make Amber's summer a living hell.

I've declared war on the ants in my kitchen. They have been trying to get the best of me. They think they are smart with their pathways and tunnels on my hardwood floors. They scoff at the shop-vac as I drag it upstairs to help them meet their maker. They greedily drag bits of toast, a tidbit of egg, some leftover cereal, a piece of fruit. All of them, marching single file, dismembering yesterday's lunch time morsels. Their best friend is my two year old. But I laugh, as a sadistic sneer travels across my face. Sweat beads my brow. They are being zapped up one by one with my vacuum hose. I have no mercy, no sympathy to their plight. Their need to take over my kitchen. I feel smug. Clearly superior. Smarter. Definitely faster. A problem solved. Until dinner and I see one run across the table, another one darts across my floor and I know deep down the ugly truth. There are millions more of them and only one of me.