Apeiron Review | Issue 18

Fire Ants Judy Xie Tyler ate fire ants. He didn’t eat them out of hunger, and he didn’t eat them often. But when he did, he made sure no one knew. On any given blade of grass, he would find the ants slowly crawling their way up and over and around. He would uproot them. Take the blade, with the ants circling and circling, and he would shove it in his mouth. If anyone asked him how they tasted, he wouldn’t be able to say exactly. Maybe something like a lemon - sour in the back of his throat, coupled with a slight burn. He’d gotten used to it, after all. But now, when he chewed, he mostly tasted grass. And grass wasn’t too bad, because it was dry and it tasted just how it smelled. Everyone liked to say that Tyler was strange. Too strange. Like he was faded around the edges. When he was younger, he was notorious for being able to eat anything. From worms to mixed garbage to rotten fruits. It was a simple process really. Someone would make some concoction, maybe milk and gravy with some peas, and the leftover lunch meat. He ate it. Meaning: enter, chew, swallow, gulp. It really wasn’t too bad. Tyler learned to take things inside of him. Some things he learned- To just take them. Endure them. Pretend it wasn’t that bad. It could have always been worse.

Everybody knew Tyler was a good kid. He loved his Mom. And without fail, everyday at 7:00 am, he would take out the trash. She never asked him to. He would move across the lawn with the recycling bin pinned against his hip, shading his eyes from the early sun. He would assess the mess: soda cans littered everywhere, half-eaten pizza, soiled paper plates. The ants would come out then, a black- red tidal wave at the ready. They would take the plates, cover them with their rounded bodies always moving. Tyler would pick up these plates. He would try to shake them off. His fingers pinching the edges and his wrists angled just so. At best, the ants overcame him. They would move up his fingers frantically as they tried to take more and more of him. They never made it to his knuckles. He would release the plate, dump them all into the trash bag.

From the backyard he could see into the garage, where his father was still asleep on a greasy, pull out couch. His Mom said that he was never coming back. And yet, there he was. At first, they were careful, so careful, that Tyler could pretend he wasn’t there. At first, it was quiet footsteps in the middle of the night. Footfalls so soft, they could’ve been the ants creeping in the attic. But soon, they grew careless.

He’d be there in the morning pouring his coffee, always stuffed with sugar. He did love his sweets. Had a tooth so rotten, Tyler wondered why it didn’t fall off. It was the kind of cavity that grew from the center and kept going, and one day, he wouldn’t be able to eat anymore. It was a thought- something that Tyler could hold on to. Before the split, every morning would be the same. Tyler with his trash. His father at the table. Coffee in one hand, his mouth full of rotten teeth, a smug, knowing kind of smile set on his face. A face that had charmed well with age, but still potted with so many holes. Tyler wondered if all the dirt and the dust in their house could turn his face black. And all those potholes would be seen by 10