Julie could not abide eggs. It was the smell. Easter was a trial. Also summertime picnics with all those deviled eggs. She called them devil eggs and swore she’d never eat one. Her mom and dad indulged her on this point. Of course she knew there were eggs in things she liked such as chocolate chip cookies but then they were invisible – and no smell.

That summer the ants exploded into the house. Julie was fascinated at their swarming and chugging along in single file like soldiers. Her mother put out traps and Julie would watch them gather around a glob of poison like a herd of horses. Her aunt Hillary said they took their fallen comrades back to the nest. The poison had to reach the queen to do any good.  Somehow, she knew if she’d lost a bunch of her – what were they? Servants? And she’d just make more. Julie started reading. You weren’t supposed to smush them – it just drew more ants. But Julie occasionally did because the stink was unbelievably powerful – from one tiny bug. How can you stand that smell, her mother asked. It’s a lot worse than an egg. Julie shrugged her shoulders. It smelled – dangerous, even though she knew they weren’t although they did bite. But a million of them – a trillion – that was horror movie stuff. There are twenty quadrillion ants in the world, Julie announced at dinner one night – that’s (she checked her notes) 2.5 million for every human. Well, that’s a lovely thought at the dinner table, her mom said.

The ants came and went. There’d be quiet spells where you thought you’d defeated them. But sure as anything they’d be back, another swarm of chaotic black dots. I might be a bug scientist someday, Julie announced. Great, her dad said, you could help us get rid of these creeps. They’re not creeps, Julie said. They’re just being ants. Her father sighed. Well, co-existence is not an option – inside the house. What’s co-sistence? Julie asked. Living together without wanting to kill each other. The ants don’t want to kill us, Julie said. If 2.5 billion were in here, I think they’d go for it.

One October day when a brisk cool wind indicated that fall was in full swing, her mother said, I think they’re gone. Hibernating maybe? They went when they were ready to go, Julie said, poison or no poison, and all that floury stuff – the dia-something earth. I expect it helped though, her mother remarked. They didn’t spread to the whole house. Ants in your pants, Julie laughed, and in your underwear drawer and in the peanut butter. Back to the horror movie image although possibly a comedy too.

Julie pondered the line between inside and outside. Some boards or bricks, a pane of glass, a scrap of fabric, some hay bales. Things outside were getting iffy, Julie knew – animals disappearing, lakes drying up, crazy wild storms. She knew about this because she paid attention.

Mercedes Lawry has published short fiction in several journals including Gravel,  Cleaver, Garbanzo, and Blotterature and was a semi-finalist in The Best Small Fictions 2016. She’s published poetry in journals such as Poetry, Nimrod, & Prairie Schooner and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize several times. She’s published three poetry chapbooks as well as stories and poems for children. Her collection, Vestiges, was published in 2022. Her collection Small Measures will be published in 2024.