priest's words. His body quakes, his fear-scent molecules ooze a dense fog.
"Ha ha ha, crick crick, hee, urqu, scruffle, pt pt pt," the congregation giggles in unleashed merriment over the priest's discomfiture.
The little fire ant can't help himself, and blurts out a drop from his rear sting. This only sets the congregation off more as they look around at the community to which the little priest belongs. All his close fire ant relatives look decidedly unhappy.
"Tell us, tell us, how you were Chosen," the congregation yells out to the phorid flies.
"We are being bred in one of the Gods' palaces," announces the lead fly proudly.
This is indeed a singular Choosing, and the congregation is suitably awed.
"We'll cost three dollars each," piped up a rather immodest member of this new elite.
A sibling of the priest's, a gloomy fire ant from southern North America, speaks up. "The Gods mustn't love us any more. That palace where all the phorid fly babies will be born is right near me. I heard the farmer say what he's going to buy them for, and that farmer is no friend of us fire ants. He's going to settle a bunch of phorid flies on his farm so they can go around to ants like me, and ... Ugh! I can feel what one of them will do to me now. I heard the farmer say it ... and laugh! Some fly will pierce my body and lay an egg inside, and then its larva will move into my head, and my head will fall off, but that larva will feed off me till it's finished. What a parasite!"
The congregation breaks into chittering laughter again, now that they know what the priest is worried about. But at a sign from the phorid flies, everyone shuts up. This is juicy, and no one wants to miss anything.
The head phorid fly speaks to the priest. "You heard that story, but I wouldn't worry too much." His tone isn't really reassuring. More of a gloat. He waves his hand to stop the heckling of "You don't have that great tropical taste any more," directed from the phorid flies to the now North American fire ants.
"Travel broadens the mind," the head fly preaches in a somewhat superior tone directed at the fire ant priest, who now feels insulted. "Actually," the fly brags. "We've been Chosen, all right," and he looks at the priest's family, "... and we'll be your neighbours, it is true. But," the fly says, and he puffs himself up to his greatest size, still a fraction of that of the little priest. " ... we think we can do better than concentrating on just your kind for dinner."
And suddenly the church air shimmers with a fervour of phorid fly voices uplifted. "Blessed be the Gods who are setting us up in Paradise."
At this point, the Great Most rises again from her throne, and the congregation becomes silent in respect.
"Let us now sing the final hymn ..."
~
The service ends, and the members of the congregation in their great disparateness leave as quickly as they had arrived—wheat and water hyacinth, golden delicious and golden staph, starling and knotweed and Colorado potato beetle, and tuberculosis, and the rectangular potato and unsquishable tomato and the doddery old damask rose. With a hop, slip, and a waft, they disappear.
There are only two devout members left standing at the door—a magnificent Arabian stallion, and a huge, fluffy ragdoll cat.
"Lovely service as usual," says the horse to the cat.
"But you must admit, even better when it ends," smiles the cat to the horse.
And bending their heads in bliss, they each bite the bejesus out of a few over-friendly parishioners.
Stargazing
(to the Ophiocoma wendtii , on the announcement "Brittle Star Found Covered With Optically Advanced 'Eyes'")
I'm looking, but I can't find
I'm seeing, and ouch! I mind!
Oh, sorry, but I must seek.
My life then, is not unique.
Of course not. It's knowledge sought.
Life's worth to me? Perish the thought.
Hmm. How can it work?
Where can they lurk?
How can they see?
So well ,
And be
So functional?
How many jars-ful?
Galaxies of
"Ha ha ha, crick crick, hee, urqu, scruffle, pt pt pt," the congregation giggles in unleashed merriment over the priest's discomfiture.
The little fire ant can't help himself, and blurts out a drop from his rear sting. This only sets the congregation off more as they look around at the community to which the little priest belongs. All his close fire ant relatives look decidedly unhappy.
"Tell us, tell us, how you were Chosen," the congregation yells out to the phorid flies.
"We are being bred in one of the Gods' palaces," announces the lead fly proudly.
This is indeed a singular Choosing, and the congregation is suitably awed.
"We'll cost three dollars each," piped up a rather immodest member of this new elite.
A sibling of the priest's, a gloomy fire ant from southern North America, speaks up. "The Gods mustn't love us any more. That palace where all the phorid fly babies will be born is right near me. I heard the farmer say what he's going to buy them for, and that farmer is no friend of us fire ants. He's going to settle a bunch of phorid flies on his farm so they can go around to ants like me, and ... Ugh! I can feel what one of them will do to me now. I heard the farmer say it ... and laugh! Some fly will pierce my body and lay an egg inside, and then its larva will move into my head, and my head will fall off, but that larva will feed off me till it's finished. What a parasite!"
The congregation breaks into chittering laughter again, now that they know what the priest is worried about. But at a sign from the phorid flies, everyone shuts up. This is juicy, and no one wants to miss anything.
The head phorid fly speaks to the priest. "You heard that story, but I wouldn't worry too much." His tone isn't really reassuring. More of a gloat. He waves his hand to stop the heckling of "You don't have that great tropical taste any more," directed from the phorid flies to the now North American fire ants.
"Travel broadens the mind," the head fly preaches in a somewhat superior tone directed at the fire ant priest, who now feels insulted. "Actually," the fly brags. "We've been Chosen, all right," and he looks at the priest's family, "... and we'll be your neighbours, it is true. But," the fly says, and he puffs himself up to his greatest size, still a fraction of that of the little priest. " ... we think we can do better than concentrating on just your kind for dinner."
And suddenly the church air shimmers with a fervour of phorid fly voices uplifted. "Blessed be the Gods who are setting us up in Paradise."
At this point, the Great Most rises again from her throne, and the congregation becomes silent in respect.
"Let us now sing the final hymn ..."
~
The service ends, and the members of the congregation in their great disparateness leave as quickly as they had arrived—wheat and water hyacinth, golden delicious and golden staph, starling and knotweed and Colorado potato beetle, and tuberculosis, and the rectangular potato and unsquishable tomato and the doddery old damask rose. With a hop, slip, and a waft, they disappear.
There are only two devout members left standing at the door—a magnificent Arabian stallion, and a huge, fluffy ragdoll cat.
"Lovely service as usual," says the horse to the cat.
"But you must admit, even better when it ends," smiles the cat to the horse.
And bending their heads in bliss, they each bite the bejesus out of a few over-friendly parishioners.
Stargazing
(to the Ophiocoma wendtii , on the announcement "Brittle Star Found Covered With Optically Advanced 'Eyes'")
I'm looking, but I can't find
I'm seeing, and ouch! I mind!
Oh, sorry, but I must seek.
My life then, is not unique.
Of course not. It's knowledge sought.
Life's worth to me? Perish the thought.
Hmm. How can it work?
Where can they lurk?
How can they see?
So well ,
And be
So functional?
How many jars-ful?
Galaxies of
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