The Ant Who Loved to Paint

Art moved slowly beneath the weight of the earth. In addition to his personal turmoil, he carried a mound of dirt nearly five-times his size, deafening the otherwise familiar corridor he traversed. Sighing bleakly, he turned to his comrade, who he thought might be Ron, but realized was only an acquaintance whose name he’d never asked.

Still, he wondered aloud, “Do you think they’ll give us a break today?”

The acquaintance didn’t seem to register the question, let alone the sarcasm.

“I mean, there are plenty of other things we could be doing.”

Unsurprisingly, the acquaintance remained mum and the pair continued their haul through the dank tunnels. A waft of misty, mildewy odor caught their attention.

“Water!” they exclaimed. The acquaintance began to pace.

“I love water,” Art said antagonizingly.

Astonished, the acquaintance finally acknowledged him. “What a stupid thing to love.”

Art frowned, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He scurried faster, his burden lightened by the prospect ahead.

He expected the acquaintance to turn back or continue pacing or to otherwise lose their wits. Yet, he heard a quickened scuttling behind him, curiosity winning over even the staunchest cynic.

Drip, drip, drip.

The two ants stopped at the edge of and abruptly wide cavern. Old and caked solid, the walls reflected an ashen glow, bathed in the light from the distance entrance overhead.

Art could barely contain himself. He dropped his load, the carefully formed ball cracking into smaller clumps. His acquaintance gasped, “What are you doing? We can’t stop! We’ll disrupt the workflow! Everything will...!” But Art paid them no attention.

The acquaintance, who surely had a name but was no more than a passing witness to the peculiarity occurring before his eyes, choked on his words. Art was rolling small chunks of his rich soil cake toward the water, smearing bits in the small puddle and forming small piles that varied in wetness.

More ants joined the acquaintance and watched with great anxiety as the cavern walls became hosts to a most curious design. Art carefully dipped each toe into varying shades of mud, collecting gouache-y clumps and pressing each of his limbs nimbly into the wall.

Shapes, swoops, and shades appeared in a manner most spectacular, and as Art stood back to appraise his progress, he heard a thunder of scurries upon him. And then, a maelstrom of eyes, fear, and judgements.

The terror of being caught washed over him, his audience rocking and breathing in an eerily heavy cadence. Art calmed his mind with a single thought.

“Yes, there are plenty of other things I could be doing.”

Covered in mud and smeared with pride, he turned around to face the confused crowd whose entire day, whose lifelong routine, had been upended in an instant by one single ant.

“I quit.”