A Black Ant

An ant attempts its journey home in a spare vignette.

A black ant crawls along an arm encased in a red shirtsleeve. At the end of the arm is a hand turning on the stove to boil a pot of water.
The figure to whom the hand belongs is moving all about the kitchen, filling the pot, finding the salt. The ant is shaken as in a hurricane. Each
infinitesimal step taken amidst the shaking is laboured and trembling, but still the ant plods on.
It hopes to be re-united with its comrades lost in the confusion. It was the last one in the line and mistakenly boarded the red arm instead of the maple
table.
Now it stands atop a mountain and its fellowmen are nowhere to be seen. It is bound for the top, but what awaits there?
Not everyone else. But it goes on.

A rising heat, just bordering the unbearable.

The figure, hand reaching across the stove for the salt, spots the ant. With an earth-rocking quake, the ant feels its grip torn from the soft red fabric. It plummets down, feeling heat and more heat the further it falls.
At last, an impact turns its legs to fragments as the warmth sheathes its body in stillness.

The figure watches.

And, after a frozen moment, gently nudges the microscopic charred heap from the stove, as if to protect it from further harm.