s. craig renfroe, jr.

So there are all these ants, thousands of ants. And the ants are spelling out words, the ants are spelling out a sentence, the ants are spelling out “Be not afraid.” And I am afraid—I am fucking afraid. Is this biblical? Aren’t the angels supposed to use that line? Are these ants angels? “Cool it,” the ants write. I don’t think angels would use slang. At any rate, I stop stepping on them, crushing them with the toe of my sneaker. They cover the tile of my kitchen. There’s no evidence of food left out. Should I get them something? “Leave everything,” the ants write, “abandon your possessions.” Other ants form even more words below these, and when they cohere, it says, “Stop judging others, work only for the good of the whole.” The top group has scrambled and is marching into a new linguistic formation. I grab a can of Pam cooking spray off the counter. As I cover them with it, the nozzle hissing, it doesn’t seem to kill them, but they do get sticky and clump together, no longer into words, just clumps. I sweep them up.

S. Craig Renfroe, Jr.
Fun Home
Alison Bechdel