The Wax Conspiracy

Chills and petty band-aids on a bed of ashes

On a leaf beneath the cut upper lip, a legless ant rolls off and onto the ashes. Alone and with nowhere else to go, screaming in delicate undertones. Antennae flail wildly about, grasping at straws, catching none. Any kind purchase hard to buy with more than the most paltry of puns in its purse. Sadly in the other pocket. Sadder still in the pants with legs inside. No legs, no pants, no surface to cling to.

Cold winds bracket the face, skipping warmth for heat by friction. Red, white and blue, the colours of the flagging. Ready for the next round, to wake up the next day and find the corpse and meals previous one and the same. Sickening with nothing but raw tasting plates free of condiments. Salt? Pepper? Rather.

Coughing up a tiny disturbance, the pile of ash barely notices the tiny insect carving up a speck. Kingdom of black and death making way for the new entrant. Gasping its last breath, choking back black flakes, unable to wave about with a leg down the throat.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 2 January 2008

The Wax Conspiracy


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