LIFE ON THE ANT FARM Copyright © 2017 Ryan Marsh
[CHAPTER ONE — THAT ONE FINE EVENING AT THE HOUSE]
‘D-, don’t you have any dreams or aspirations, Marta?’ I humored with austerity, straightening my posture which means sitting uncomfortably on the ottoman.
Marta scooped up her Royal Doulton: Figure of the (can’t remember which) Year from off of the rich mahogany drawer and headed over towards the Food Prep room, o so theatrical, ‘Just good health, Floyd. Just good health,’ she replied, harmonious.
A short while after . . .
. . . my modus operandi: 2 go and severely convince the eternally-subservient Marta that I was severely indisposed with a severe case of the . . . no u just wait now and hold the bloody mobile flip-phone (!) as I can remember c when Marta abruptly-abandoned me I stretched the neck on my glitzy Rihanna crew tee and 2 I inspected my brittle shoulders so vigorously they couldn’t help but sparkle an I-really-do-adhere-2-myself gradient of infuriated caliente. Hmm, no, ha, no, maybe just stop. Hmm . . . could continue . . .
. . . I could continue to proceed with such an adrenaline-soaked passage but u c I’d rather avoid problematic nonsense. I must avoid. I must stop. Must stop now, I must stop . . . will stop . . . I think . . . I will . . . now.
Don’t want 2 go and get 2 over-indulgent and all self-referential in my own-self. C I’m not 2 certain if I want this 2 go and belong in the fiction works or the non-fiction works, hmm . . . no, you wait, tbh, not too sure, not 2 sure on the difference?!? Best stop now with the actual 2 . . . not literal enough, won’t achieve acclaim for the autobiographical or fictitious Life on the Ant Farm novel by brandishing the 2 around in order 2 come across so rebellious (like the Requiem for a Dream fellow) and no way, no! I won’t get 2 far by discriminating against to, two or too. Deter from the self-doubting, no more now; self-doubting portrays fractious signs of potential worthlessness.
There was this One Fine Evening at the House.
This One Fine Evening at the House: the mere hands of the clock. O no, the mere hands of the clock . . . hmm no, not 2day. Discontinue. I’m not introducing this impressionistic part of my narrative in such a bleak and cliché-ridden manner.
Once Marta floated off into the Food Prep room like a demonic fairy into a squatter’s dream, well u c it wasn’t long until Floyd, until Floyd was hanging off of the otto-, hmm, no, wait, no wait that’s, that’s just . . . accurate. C I was hanging off of the ottoman and this was an act of the pre-determined nature. No c I wasn’t accompanied by any of my witnesses. I had no idea as 2 where they were located at that time.
I: The bashful Tyrannosaurus: a veteran member of the Non-Stuffed organization.
II: The primitive Paddington bear with the red boots and the red hat: a tribal warrior of the Stuffed organization.
They weren’t around. They weren’t being their deferential selves. I couldn’t see them anywhere. Marta had probably hid them somewhere and if I would have independently-interrogated her (under the beam of the Terzani) about her evasive actions then she may have referred to those evasive actions as being (essentially) just humor or quite simply just a game or something down those sorts of ridiculing lines. It was so possible that they’d been re-located way up the steps.
I put two and 2 together and thought they were in Floyd’s room – the two of them there side-by-side – ha, both of them, the Dynamic Duo – there swaying on the small-double like some nostalgic Buzz—Woody scene of mass hysteria, and in a synchronized manner they’d go, ‘Husssshhhh,’ if I was to just stroll into the room with my Polaroid unexpected.
On that One Fine Evening your protagonist was located in the Open room and centered mistakenly due 2 the harsh restraints in time; c I was almost directly underneath the interrogating beam of the Terzani stream – nearby Marta’s rich mahogany drawer – the exact rich mahogany drawer which held her (recently-snatched-off) Doulton – it also held her symmetrical companion which was her highly-regarded automated radio, kept balanced on top of a bulky stack of papers.
U c every Thursday I’d go through thought-out stages where I would attempt to break the automated radio or disable or damage it by pulling hard and rash at the papers underneath. The Thursday before that special One Fine Evening I had planned my execution with precision, yet due to an unexplainable blip in m-
[TO BE CONTINUED]
LIFE ON THE ANT FARM
Release Date: 11/08/2017
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