Storymania - Don't Feed The Ants by Brian Stamile

Don't Feed The Ants
Brian Stamile

In the depths of isolation, a struggling writer named Robert Powell cloistered himself in the corner of his parlor in search of a muse. It was the harshest month of winter and he could scarcely find people on the streets for inspiration. Resigning himself to a secluded nook he stared at a row of ants that were marching mechanically across the hardwood floor.
        “Hello little ant, I’m afraid I need your help. You see, I’ve been trying to think of a story, but no one is around to write about, and there’s nothing even present to ponder. Can you help me?”
         To Robert’s surprise, the lead ant stopped dead in his tracks causing the entire procession to halt. The tiny black ant looked up at Isaac with his beady black eyes and began to speak proper English in a thunderous voice.
“Well my friend, I’ve been marching through these walls and across these floors for a number of years, and I’ve seen a great many things, and am likewise privy to a great many secrets. So I suppose we can come to some sort of arrangement. After all, you do have certain advantages that we ants would find valuable at our disposal.”
“What is it you want? I’ll do pretty much anything for help. I promised my editor I’d have a riveting story ready by tomorrow, and I haven’t even begun. If I can’t produce one by sunrise they’ll tear up my contract and I’ll be forced onto the streets with the other vagrants.”
“Fear not, my gargantuan friend. We have simple needs. Each day we wander in search of a disregarded crumb or anything at all that can help sustain our colony until the following day when we search again. All we desire is a slice of bread to be placed on the parlor floor each evening. For us ants, it is always a struggle to survive, but with the aid of a hearty piece of bread each evening it should be no trouble at all.”
“Then we have a deal.” Robert declared appreciatively.
He placed a sheet of clean white paper on the ground near the ant and motioned for him to climb atop. Then, he carried the ant to the writing desk where they began work. The ant dictated the story to Robert as he scribbled it all down without thinking. Within the hour, they were finished. The ant returned to his waiting comrades and Isaac left a slice of plain white bread on the parlor floor as promised.
   Before retiring to bed, Robert read over the story and was astounded. He was so busy copying it down that he didn’t have the opportunity to appreciate the complexity and beauty of the tale. It was unlike anything he’d ever read before, woven from an angelic fabric into an ornate tapestry of despair, conflict, heroism, and love, and it all left the reader on the edge of their seat aching to see what happened next.
How could an ant come up with such a story? He wondered.
The next day, Robert submitted the story and received a phone call from the editor just hours later. The editor of the local literary magazine was a vivacious businessman, square dealing yet ruthless all the same. He spoke quickly such that each word felt like a punch in the face. “Robert, Robert my boy. You’ve done it. This little story is the most revolutionary thing I’ve read all year. You’re going to be a star. I’m running this baby on page one of next week’s edition. I can’t believe you finally did it. You know, they all wanted to drop you but I had faith till the end. I tell you kid, I know talent when I see it.”
Robert blushed at the thought of becoming rich and famous. These were the things he’d dreamt of when he first decided to become a writer. Yet they were so different from the humble life he now led.
A week later, the editor’s prediction proved to be correct. The magazine hit the stands like an atomic bomb. Robert’s phone didn’t stop ringing for days, checks poured in from other magazines wanting to reprint the story, and women suddenly seemed to show an interest in him. All the while, he was grateful for the help of the little ant and stayed true to their agreement by leaving a slice of bread in the parlor every night.
When the frenzy around the story finally subsided and Robert was through being praised as a literary genius, he received another call from the editor. “So how’s my favorite wordsmith doing?”
        “Great, everything’s terrific and I couldn’t be happier, I even have a new girlfriend, Erin.”
        “Fantastic, now listen, I told everyone you’d have another brilliant story for me by the end of the week. Do you think you can do it? You can’t stop now. We’ve got right them where we want them. If you keep going like this you’ll be bigger than Hemingway. You can’t back out on me now. So what can I tell them?”
        “Another story?” I need to speak with that ant again maybe he’ll give me another one. But what if he doesn’t know anymore? Or what if he knows one but doesn’t want to let me use it. Do I have anything else he wants? “Sure thing, I’ll have it by Friday.” He replied begrudgingly.
That night, Robert searched the floor for the ants, but they were nowhere to be found. He decided the only way to find them would be to stake them out and wait. Placing a piece of bread in the center of the parlor floor, he took a comfortable seat on the only upholstered chair in the house. For hours his eyes remained fixed on the bread, awaiting the return of the ants.
It was late into the night when they finally appeared. The magnanimous lead ant looked the same as before, but this time, twice as many ants were following him. Crouching on the floor once again, he got the ant’s attention.
        “Excuse me. May I speak with you again?” Robert asked hesitantly.
The lead ant looked up again and obliged.
        “Yes my friend, of course. How did everything work out with that story I gave you?”
        “Oh everything went superbly. I’ve become quite acclaimed as a result. But you see, one story alone will not suffice. My public is now hungry for another captivating tale. Is there anything else I can do to convince you to afford me another story?”
The ant sat silently for a moment, as he contemplated the offer. “Well, now that we have our daily bread ration I don’t believe there is. After all, our agreement was for one story and one story alone. Now if you’ll excuse me I’d like to go on about my business.”
Becoming agitated by the ant’s refusal Robert suddenly realized the true nature of his power over the ant. “You listen to me. Where do you think that bread comes from each evening? Me!” There was a vindictive anger in Robert’s voice. “What if I said I was going to stop setting it out for you each night unless you gave me another story?”
        “That would be reneging on our agreement. I don’t think I’d stand for that.”
        “And what exactly would you do about it? You’re just a tiny ant and I’m an enormous human.”
        “I warn you my friend you are making a mistake if you choose to cross our path. We are the most populous living creatures on the planet, and contrary to what you might think, we rule the world, not you.”
        “I could crush you right now, crush you all.” With that, Robert viciously forced his thumb down upon three ants standing in line behind their leader, crushing them to pieces. Horrified, the lead ant looked on at the senseless murder.
        “Stop!” He cried out. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
        “I’m sorry but I had to show you I was serious.” Robert chuckled at the absurdity of killing an ant and feeling guilty. “Now what sort of agreement do you have in mind?”
        “Well, it seems to me that you could indeed kill us all if you wished, however, if you were to do that, you still would be left without the story you desire. So this allows for some leverage on our part. So I suggest that we agree that for every story I give you, you leave out one more additional piece of bread every night. Our numbers have grown substantially since we have a reliable source of food, but we still need to feed our growing populace. But once more I warn you, do not cross us again. Do you accept? Or would you rather kill us all, and sacrifice your story?”
Robert thought over the proposal, and it seemed fair enough. After all, he didn’t mind leaving pieces of bread on the parlor floor. He would leave a whole loaf out and it wouldn’t bother him in the least. So Robert greedily accepted the deal.
That night, Robert was given another spectacular story from the lead ant, and he held up his end of the bargain by leaving two pieces of bread out for the ants instead of one. The story was another success, and the cycle repeated itself. Before long, the editor and fans demanded another story and the ant once again provided it. Robert now left three pieces of bread out every night.
As the weeks and months passed, the ants provided more and more stories and Robert left more and more bread. Eventually he was considered to be one of the most respected writers around.
By the third year, Robert had published over a hundred stories, and now spent a good part of his time buying and transporting bread to leave for the ants. They had become so great in number that he was forced to tiptoe around the house for fear of crushing a single ant and upsetting their leader. Hundreds of ant lines zigzagged through every room in the house, and he could even hear them rustling inside the walls. The little black creatures roamed the house freely and had taken over the entire downstairs. Robert no longer invited people into his home because they would see the ants and surely think he’d gone mad.
One day, when Robert had yet another strict deadline, he approached the lead ant and asked him to dictate yet another story, but the ant just stood there, silently. In order to convince him to help, that night he left double the amount of bread he was supposed to.
The following evening, Robert once again approached the lead ant, in hopes that he’d changed his mind and had decided to help him. But as before, the proud ant had no response. Am I going mad? Could it have all been in my head? Did the ant ever even talk to me? Is it possible that I wrote those stories on my own?
Robert was invigorated by the notion that the storytelling ant was just a delusion or a dream. As the evening dragged on, he became convinced that it was him and him alone that had written the stories. So that night, he didn’t leave so much as a crumb of bread for the ants to feast on. As he lay down to sleep, he thought. Why should I feed these useless creatures, they took over my house, and have given me nothing in return. Tomorrow I’ll begin work on my next tale, my masterpiece. He fell quickly to sleep.
The ants waited patiently until late into the night for their nightly serving of bread, until they could wait no longer. The entire swarm of thousand upon thousands of them approached Robert’s bed. They crept up his bed post and onto the comforter awaiting the lead ant to take charge and begin giving orders. Poised atop Robert’s chin, the lead ant motioned for the restraint of his minions, and spoke one sentence aloud before ordering them to suffocate him and pull his body into millions of tiny pieces. “I warned you not to cross our path.” The noble ant scoffed.