‘n Doring in die vlees; maar ‘n fees om te lees: The Whistle Thorn Tree!
Sabrina lay on her stomach in the powdered dirt. She was operating her Ant Slaughter Farm. Five ants in her matchbox. She shook it violently, and then opened it a sliver, enough to let one concussed inmate drop into the antlion cone. Sometimes it took a while. Eventually, when the ant started moving, the antlion would grab it.
She sighed. Inside the farmhouse, they were reading her grandfather’s will. Her stomach clenched. Dead. She pulled the curtain tassel he had once given her from her short’s pocket; tickled the side of the cone. The sand stirred. She watched the brief, hapless struggle. Soon, she was out of ants.
Listlessly she followed a trail of ants, avoiding the riverbed. There be crocodiles. An afternoon on, the ants veered off the dusty path. A perfect spot! The trickle of busy bodies flowed under a looming rock. She slid under it; imagined herself to be a snake. The sand was much cooler here. Edging forward carefully, she searched for the nest. Too far. Down she tumbled. She did not cry out. I am Alice, she thought.
Her knees were skinned, sand in her mouth. She looked around, afraid at last. She could hardly see in the light spilling through the slit up top. She licked her bleeding knee. Felt the pinch bite of an ant. She picked it off her and dropped it into her matchbox. There were so many. She tried to scramble up the loose rabble to get out. Became an ant herself, sliding back, sliding back.
|Spiffer Bomb Sniffers|
Life gets more interesting every day: http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/discoblog/2011/01/27/will-bomb-sniffing-plants-guard-the-airports-of-the-future/