Owen and the Colony

by E.K. Entrada

Owen Greene looked like someone who knew a lot about many things, even for an eleven-year-old. If knowledge were a costume, he was wearing it. Outdated glasses, soft belly, faded clothes, unraveling sneakers. He looked the part, although it wasn’t a look he was purposely trying to achieve.

In reality, Owen couldn’t place Canada on a map. He knew, however, that ants were part of the family Formicidae, and that they evolved from ancestral wasps more than one-hundred million years ago. There were twelve thousand ant species, and he knew that, too.

“Ants are very intelligent,” he would say to anyone who cared, which was no one except his parents, who simply nodded.

A blossoming anthill was taking shape in a patch of grass outside his house. On his way to school, he bent and inspected it, stepping lightly to make sure he didn’t kill one of the unfortunate lower caste members, who were charged with the task of anthill construction while the queen and her entourage nestled peacefully in the nest’s belly. If one of the ants were crushed, Owen knew that its pheromone would emit a specialized odor that would send the colony rushing to its aid, but he wouldn’t dare crush one of them to watch it happen.

After his inspection, Owen lumbered down the sidewalk with an awkwardness that only a young boy with knowledge could achieve.

When he returned that afternoon, it was more than ninety degrees. His shirt was ringed with sweat. With his booksack still hanging from his shoulders, he squinted into the anthill and watched the red creatures busy themselves. Some carried leaves over their heads.

“You’re doing well,” he said to the anthill. It was four in the afternoon, and this was the first thing he’d said all day.

 

 

issue 55 august 31st, 2009