Plaice not first plaice. 2 brightnesz. Mom-Majesty hide smell? Ware? That way or thiz way
Wait. She wud want wait.
Old with strong legs showed me dig. We do that when bright comes and stop when it sleeps. My dig shaky and not smooth. But old said get better with prak-tice. Fleek worker, old is.
Slightly tired last night; Old mentioned at breakfast that I’d rested the whole eight minutes! I don’t recall that happening before, but my feelers were a tad sore after our shift. It was a corner—it’s always the corners, I’m learning. The others are supportive, except for Darcy. I attempted to wish her a productive workday, but I think I spit too much cucumber in her jaws because she kept inching towards Dave’s pebble.
What am I, antennae-less? I noticed how much sugarwater she fed Dave. But joke’s on them, ‘cause Old used to play bridge with Blanche and I felt his fur wink when he touchtold me: Blanche is Dave’s mentor, and she’s caught him clocking out early! Twice. I’m not about to spill the beans, because Mom-Majesty taught me to share them with my brothers and sisters. I nearly sprinted over to Darcy-space and spit another cucumber at her, because if word gets around that her new boyfriend is lazy? He’d be click-laughed out of the colony! It’d be worse than dating a praying mantis.
I’ll protect their secret…for now. But I’m keeping Dave under surveillance.
I’ve heard odd bloblike forms swimming by our farm most of the day, often during the Light Hours. Their grunting grates on my antennae. Sometimes, it almost seems as if they’re observing us. I know that’s ridiculous.
Heaven steady my legs and prevent me from summoning the colony physician. I am well-acquainted with the gentleman, and were I to voice the query currently hurtling through my neurons, I should likely suffer some form of social embarrassment. Is it possible for a body to perish from ignominy, stemming from a regrettable lack of maturity in one’s youth?
Following the previous evening’s constitutional, I perused the earlier entries of this missive and was woefully unprepared to process my own mortification. My jealousy regarding the presumed union between Darcy and David reads as shockingly inappropriate, the reactions of an unsophisticated larvae! David is, in fact, an exceedingly hard-working fellow; I’ve never been prouder to cast my vote for a mayoral candidate. He ascended to office without opposition, it’s true, as the election earlier this week was our first and some of the electorate appeared to be struggling with the concept of representation, but crafting a perfect democracy is proving more challenging than excavation. But with patience, research, and dedication, we shall master the process post-haste. As the results were broadcast to our antennae, Old muttered in my direction that Rome was not built in a day. I remarked that I am unfamiliar with that particular enclave, but the probability is high that this “Rome” lacked artisans with our experience.
The government’s authority is, of course, temporary. Mother-Majesty remains our sovereign, and the university’s Statistics department has decreed that her eventual glorious return is inevitable. But continuing to indefinitely postpone the census, zoning meetings, and recycling services was not a sustainable solution. Why, a few days past, not a single individual had even considered hosting a book club, and as Erin Morgenstern and Emily St. John Mandel have both released novels in the past six months!
I developed an interest in baking this morning, and my sourdough starter is performing admirably. I’m composing this journal entry as a literary after-dinner mint, my palate cleanser following an evening of Latin instruction. Kneading may be necessary, but I cannot waste the time.
I’m certain that I again detected opaque behemoths scrutinizing my conjugation, though I cannot identify their species or motives.
Tonight, I saw the best minds of my country club destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked.
At least that would’ve been a reasonable response for my neighbors to adopt in regards to being herded by invisible forces and then unceremoniously plonked into unfamiliar landscape. I have a persistent, vaguely-troubling sensation that history is repeating itself. A phantom memory, perhaps, something just scarcely outside my perception field. One moment, I was reaching for my bathrobe, and the next—I have been deposited into unworked soil. What of the architecture we painstakingly shaped? The sporting events we scheduled at the stadium, still undergoing construction? Who will tend to my sourdough?
When the discombobulation evaporated, a vile confusion sank in and I realized that my senses were fending off fierce assaults in every theater, from every angle. The giant creatures whom I had heard and smelled for weeks towered over our heads, their presence finally evident to all. I expected my co-workers, my friend, my brothers and sisters, to share my fury. At the very least, I would’ve imagined we could agree that our landlord-tenant rights were being flagrantly ignored.
Instead, they cheered our evictors. The Colony Clerk even inquired as to whether I would support an ordinance proposing that we employ our natural chiseling abilities towards sculpting a statue of the strange beings! I became so flabbergasted that I momentarily misplaced my speech faculties.
The statue crashed through committee; we’ve been overexerting ourselves in order to complete it by the weekend. Some among our number dig its features into life while the light shines, then worship its half-fashioned form into the evening. By popular degree, the finished piece—a miniature likeness celebrating beings unknown to us—will permanently reside at our base’s entrance, positioned so that we may “receive its guidance,” as Darcy says. Codswallop.
Yesterday, our scouts determined where our former landlords—and presumably, my former apartment—reside. While the distance is substantial for those of our biological persuasion, our scientists surmise that based on what we’ve learned about the giants’ physiology, they are able to traverse the distance in mere second. An Unveiling is being organized as I write this, a statue-based scheme to capture their attention and win their favor. All citizens are heavily encouraged to attend.
If I refuse, I shall be rendered a pariah.
If I participate—if I betray my principles, fortify our embrace of this oppressive festoon that mine own legs have wrought—then who am I?
Whisper my path, Mother-Majesty. Your son, your servant, looks to you.
Andy Trousdale requested a story based on this graphic: