As the Moon Climbs

He’d asked for someone easy-going. Pleasant. Good-looking, any ethnicity. Oh, and with at least a master’s degree in physics, preferably a PhD, specializing in optics. Neil gave the agency his credit card information, trying to be hopeful after what had happened with the last girl.

And then she had arrived. She wore a short dress, black hair pulled back, coffee-colored skin making her white smile look brighter.

“Hi, I’m Rachel,” she said. “How can I help you today?”

“Well,” he mumbled, “I could maybe take you down to the lab?”

“Sounds fun! Let’s go.”

They descended a staircase hidden behind a bookshelf, into a huge underground cavern filled with electronics. At the center was a giant laser attached to a computer. Rachel’s eyes lit up and she ran over to inspect it.

“This is amazing!” she exclaimed.

“Want to help me work on it?” Neil asked shyly.

“You bet I do! Let me get changed.”

Sometimes it pays to be an evil scientist, Neil thought, watching Rachel’s shapely backside bounce toward the bathroom.

I wondered how old he was when I killed him. A century? Two? Ten? He looked to be almost fifty until I wiped off layers of makeup, revealing the face of a man in his early thirties at most. No matter. The bowl was mine, now.

It was about five inches in diameter, an inch or two deep, and apparently made of platinum. Stories would have you think that only the pure and saintly can possess it; luckily for me, that claim seemed to be exaggerated.

But how I was supposed to use it? Fill it with water and drink, presumably, but how much water? How often? Did it have to be a special kind of water, or some other liquid? I had spent so much time figuring out the logistics of eternal life that I hadn’t considered whether there might be technical specifics as well. Only one way to find out.

I entered the man’s kitchen and held the bowl under the faucet, letting it fill with tap water. I raised it to my lips and drank. I felt the same, but maybe it took time to work.

And now, of course, I had all the time in the world.

There was still something of the ant in us, in the blackness of our armor, the way we formed neat lines as we summoned our rage for battle. Entering the fray, our spears were as stingers piercing our enemies, our swords as sharp jaws cutting through flesh and bone. We left bright trails for our brothers to follow as we danced death through the lines of the Trojans, who fled back to the relative safety of their tall walls.

The war ended, and those who were not crushed beneath its heel found the nostos they sought, turning ant once again to furrow fields in straight rows and build earthen walls to shelter their families. Except me. I craved only battle, and my lust was insatiable. Tireless. The gods granted me a gift, which I now give to you.

It is a sword, yes, but it can be a rifle, or machete, or pistol–whatever instrument of death you desire. There will always be someone willing to pay for your services, be they armies or petty criminals. Me? I have grown tired. But I sense something of the ant in you…

I’d say this year was my best November noveling effort to date. I had a reasonably good outline going into it, subdivided to facilitate daily goals, and I made the word count every day with breaks on Fridays to rest and extra writing on the weekends. I’m definitely more of a tortoise than a hare when it comes to writing, and this year taught me that consistency is a wonderful thing.