Introduction
This very short story (416 words) is a writing exercise I set myself - to get as much complex existential thought as possible into relatively few words. I feel the Banksy images compliment the writing's spirit. If you'd like to read a longer existential short story then consider Dream Catcher.Ants, existential short story
With childish malevolence she stokes the ants' nest, "Everything you think is false." She revels in her power as ants scurry berserk, pawns of her reckless will, stinging, they sate her sadomasochistic desire as they battle in vain to save their queen.
She stands before the mirror having just woken. She feels and looks washed out. It was a heavy sex session.
She can see him in the mirror. He lays pressed against the wall snoring. Disgusting, malleable, pathetic.
Now, in this mirror, what does it amount to? He scarcely pays her any attention. She's left clues, she's left lists, conspicuously, when she's gone away, she's driven him out and ushered her lovers in. Her immanent departure hangs ponderously above everything.
He lays there inert as if waiting for an ambulance.
He hates her with love - it's a price she's willing to pay - no price too high. She'll leave soon and retreat into her cocoon. She scares herself sometimes.
In the mirror she pulls her jeans on. They snag round her waist, "Fucking fat bitch!" She smashes her balled fist into her thigh.
He doesn't stir, no rush of sympathy or concern, just lays there peacefully, patiently waiting for his ambulance, dribbles oblivious to her plight.
A ball of fury she attacks him with her fists and rouses him to a "Fuck off you bitch!"
She cannot trust so she betrays and she cannot stand the betrayals they make her sick within, hate herself. Those technicolor meaningless gold and purple betrayals. Why are they necessary?
The all-pervading nausea of betrayal. He hates her, he must betray, be betrayed, the absolute terror and horror of it all.
Another week of torment, maybe two, then she'll give herself completely again, begging to be used. It's the only sex he'll get and she'll make him hate himself for it too, the moral fool.
There'll always be people prepared to indulge her - her family, an unending conveyor belt-load of therapists and she'll never have to look on him or the consequences again.
She and another lover flick ash in his hair, she laughs at him, then abandons him alone. A crimson and magenta betrayal. She wants him hurt.
Last nights' fish and chips kicked into the gutter.
She leaves.
One last surrender to the fury, stick a twig in the ants' nest, "Beat me, beat me up."
Beats him up one more time, the pneumatic doors close and she speeds away tearful.
Years later he wakes in agony.
