A Mishap of Science
By Kyle Hemmings
With undisclosed sources of funding, our project was going quite well. The objective was to develop a secret society of super-ants which would combat terrorism. They would be cloned with rigorous attention to the most promising DNA recombinants. Within a large container supplied with piped in air, we grew several colonies of mutated ants. We observed and noted their daily behaviors. They built cities and highways, erected small pyramid-shaped monuments made of dirt. Over a period of time, many grew bigger, stronger, could even stand upright. According to Heiseman, Fletcher, et. al., a scenario was outlined. The ants rose from their cities, climbed along the walls of the glass and ate their way through the glass lid, which they must have mistaken for lack of sky. Several must have hid in the back rooms of the lab and it was theorized that one of these killed the night watchman and escaped. The night it happened to me, I was in a sound sleep. Perhaps it located my whereabouts by gamma-Ga radiation tracers. I heard the clomping, something climbing up the steps, a slow, heavy rhythm, the sound I imagine a serial killer makes to let his victim know what is in store. I awoke to the giant ant, pinning my arms to the bed with its virulent pincers. This mutated ant, I remembered, was one of my most fascinating subjects and we spent hours studying each other from either side of the glass receptacle. I remember how it tilted its head and looked at me sympathetically. At least it was my impression. But now, staring into my face with its gleaming marble eyes and in a low, clear voice resembling my own, it now asked, Who is your god?
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Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey, where he skateboards near Branch Brook Park, falls, and sometimes can't get up.
By Kyle Hemmings
With undisclosed sources of funding, our project was going quite well. The objective was to develop a secret society of super-ants which would combat terrorism. They would be cloned with rigorous attention to the most promising DNA recombinants. Within a large container supplied with piped in air, we grew several colonies of mutated ants. We observed and noted their daily behaviors. They built cities and highways, erected small pyramid-shaped monuments made of dirt. Over a period of time, many grew bigger, stronger, could even stand upright. According to Heiseman, Fletcher, et. al., a scenario was outlined. The ants rose from their cities, climbed along the walls of the glass and ate their way through the glass lid, which they must have mistaken for lack of sky. Several must have hid in the back rooms of the lab and it was theorized that one of these killed the night watchman and escaped. The night it happened to me, I was in a sound sleep. Perhaps it located my whereabouts by gamma-Ga radiation tracers. I heard the clomping, something climbing up the steps, a slow, heavy rhythm, the sound I imagine a serial killer makes to let his victim know what is in store. I awoke to the giant ant, pinning my arms to the bed with its virulent pincers. This mutated ant, I remembered, was one of my most fascinating subjects and we spent hours studying each other from either side of the glass receptacle. I remember how it tilted its head and looked at me sympathetically. At least it was my impression. But now, staring into my face with its gleaming marble eyes and in a low, clear voice resembling my own, it now asked, Who is your god?
- - -
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey, where he skateboards near Branch Brook Park, falls, and sometimes can't get up.
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