{"id":18351,"date":"2025-01-28T12:00:18","date_gmt":"2025-01-28T18:00:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/?p=18351"},"modified":"2025-01-31T15:27:32","modified_gmt":"2025-01-31T21:27:32","slug":"entomology","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2025\/01\/28\/entomology\/","title":{"rendered":"Entomology"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"has-large-font-size\"><strong>Entomology<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<ul class=\"wp-block-social-links is-content-justification-right is-layout-flex wp-container-core-social-links-is-layout-765c4724 wp-block-social-links-is-layout-flex\"><li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-facebook  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/profile.php?id=61556140010887\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12 2C6.5 2 2 6.5 2 12c0 5 3.7 9.1 8.4 9.9v-7H7.9V12h2.5V9.8c0-2.5 1.5-3.9 3.8-3.9 1.1 0 2.2.2 2.2.2v2.5h-1.3c-1.2 0-1.6.8-1.6 1.6V12h2.8l-.4 2.9h-2.3v7C18.3 21.1 22 17 22 12c0-5.5-4.5-10-10-10z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Facebook<\/span><\/a><\/li>\n\n<li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-instagram  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/boudin_mcneese\/\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12,4.622c2.403,0,2.688,0.009,3.637,0.052c0.877,0.04,1.354,0.187,1.671,0.31c0.42,0.163,0.72,0.358,1.035,0.673 c0.315,0.315,0.51,0.615,0.673,1.035c0.123,0.317,0.27,0.794,0.31,1.671c0.043,0.949,0.052,1.234,0.052,3.637 s-0.009,2.688-0.052,3.637c-0.04,0.877-0.187,1.354-0.31,1.671c-0.163,0.42-0.358,0.72-0.673,1.035 c-0.315,0.315-0.615,0.51-1.035,0.673c-0.317,0.123-0.794,0.27-1.671,0.31c-0.949,0.043-1.233,0.052-3.637,0.052 s-2.688-0.009-3.637-0.052c-0.877-0.04-1.354-0.187-1.671-0.31c-0.42-0.163-0.72-0.358-1.035-0.673 c-0.315-0.315-0.51-0.615-0.673-1.035c-0.123-0.317-0.27-0.794-0.31-1.671C4.631,14.688,4.622,14.403,4.622,12 s0.009-2.688,0.052-3.637c0.04-0.877,0.187-1.354,0.31-1.671c0.163-0.42,0.358-0.72,0.673-1.035 c0.315-0.315,0.615-0.51,1.035-0.673c0.317-0.123,0.794-0.27,1.671-0.31C9.312,4.631,9.597,4.622,12,4.622 M12,3 C9.556,3,9.249,3.01,8.289,3.054C7.331,3.098,6.677,3.25,6.105,3.472C5.513,3.702,5.011,4.01,4.511,4.511 c-0.5,0.5-0.808,1.002-1.038,1.594C3.25,6.677,3.098,7.331,3.054,8.289C3.01,9.249,3,9.556,3,12c0,2.444,0.01,2.751,0.054,3.711 c0.044,0.958,0.196,1.612,0.418,2.185c0.23,0.592,0.538,1.094,1.038,1.594c0.5,0.5,1.002,0.808,1.594,1.038 c0.572,0.222,1.227,0.375,2.185,0.418C9.249,20.99,9.556,21,12,21s2.751-0.01,3.711-0.054c0.958-0.044,1.612-0.196,2.185-0.418 c0.592-0.23,1.094-0.538,1.594-1.038c0.5-0.5,0.808-1.002,1.038-1.594c0.222-0.572,0.375-1.227,0.418-2.185 C20.99,14.751,21,14.444,21,12s-0.01-2.751-0.054-3.711c-0.044-0.958-0.196-1.612-0.418-2.185c-0.23-0.592-0.538-1.094-1.038-1.594 c-0.5-0.5-1.002-0.808-1.594-1.038c-0.572-0.222-1.227-0.375-2.185-0.418C14.751,3.01,14.444,3,12,3L12,3z M12,7.378 c-2.552,0-4.622,2.069-4.622,4.622S9.448,16.622,12,16.622s4.622-2.069,4.622-4.622S14.552,7.378,12,7.378z M12,15 c-1.657,0-3-1.343-3-3s1.343-3,3-3s3,1.343,3,3S13.657,15,12,15z M16.804,6.116c-0.596,0-1.08,0.484-1.08,1.08 s0.484,1.08,1.08,1.08c0.596,0,1.08-0.484,1.08-1.08S17.401,6.116,16.804,6.116z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Instagram<\/span><\/a><\/li><\/ul>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><strong>J.M.J. Brewer<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">__________<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Day 43. Nine Mansion Members remained in the game. Angie awoke atop a dead arm because it was difficult to sleep comfortably in a bed shaped like a banana peel. This season\u2019s <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> theme was \u201cInspecting Insects,\u201d and in turn the Destitute Room theme was \u201cTrash Heap.\u201d She and the other two Destitutes\u2014Saul and Robby, enemies to her\u2014were scaled roach sized to the room. Each night before bed they scurried over plastic simulacra of sodden leaves, a vinyl extra-large copy of the <em>Dallas Morning News<\/em> with the headline \u201cStorm of Political Controversy Swirls Around Kennedy on Visit,\u201d and a giantess mannequin in regal profile clutching a viper.<br><br>Angie avoided cutting through the backyard to make the kitchen\u2014the backyard was where Thanksgiving, leader of the rival \u201cFive Seasons\u201d Alliance, pumped iron. So, along the low corridors into the kitchen, where she was alone for about two seconds before Magpie stretched in like she\u2019d been waiting for someone to bother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI\u2019m actually allergic to milk,\u201d Magpie said, pouring milk over a bowl of cereal. \u201cI have to puke it up after every meal.\u201d<br><br>\u201cYou must really enjoy the taste,\u201d said Angie.<br><br>Magpie gestured at the selection of insects on Angie\u2019s plate. \u201cIt\u2019s not healthy to eat the same thing day after day, you know,\u201d she said.<br><br>As if Angie had a choice; she was on Swill ever since she\u2019d been on the losing team in last week\u2019s Destitution Competition, which had required the Mansion Members to dress up in dog costumes and, using only their mouths, construct a phantasmagorical miniature of The Pieta. Jesus\u2019s head was that of a queen termite, Mary\u2019s body a thick millipede, her lap a frozen wave of ridged undulation.<br><br>Angie choked down a cricket. She was never quite sure if Magpie was immeasurably stupid or obliquely brilliant. Was this comment a psychological whacking? Or was Magpie so galactically self-centered and well-meaning that she thought it necessary to explain a primary game mechanic three quarters into the season?<br><br>Angie was saved an inquiry by Thanksgiving\u2019s advent. Her eyes narrowed at Angie, but her mouth cranked into a dimpling smile.<br><br>\u201cMorning, Angie,\u201d she said. \u201cSleep well?\u201d<br><br>\u201cYou\u2019ve got some sweat,\u201d said Angie.<br><br>Thanksgiving began composing a protein shake just as the house alarm rang out: this morning the buzz of one thousand flies at feast. A booming voice over the loudspeakers counted down from five minutes.<br><br>By three and a half minutes past all Mansion Members were in costume and eating on their respective sides: the Five Seasons huddling around Thanksgiving at the stovetop and Angie and her three Cimmerians whispering in the booth.<br><br>Angie and the Cimmerians\u2014Bol, Cara, Hank Eerie\u2014had been in an alliance since night six. But their numbers were down against this recent merging of the Body Shop and the Weasel Brigade. A four-five split this late into the game necessitated swift, brutalist measures to regain the majority.<br><br>\u201cTwo. One. Zero,\u201d intoned the Voice. \u201cPlease exit by the backdoor.\u201d<br><br>The Mansion Members filed outside. Soft white sand beach ringed the mansion. Palm trees overhung cabanas. The central palapa\u2019s lanterns shook in the wind and wind blew the grass along the beach into running shapes. Floating silently above were drones like blackbird skeletons.<br><br>A massive screen sat on the white sand. It had not been there yesterday; production must have erected it during the night. Angie was forever unnerved by their swift ability to alter her reality\u2014this procedure even more invasive, somehow, than the 222 cameras. The closest camera stuck from a palm trunk. Its red pinhole glowed like the portal to a red universe.<br><br>\u201cLet\u2019s go America!\u201d yelled Saul. He raised the roof. His teeth shone skull-white from his uncomfortably symmetrical face. Angie had him as Thanksgiving\u2019s primary enforcer.<br><br>Robby ripped off his shirt and screeched \u201cLet\u2019s goooo America!\u201d He was good for a strip every few weeks. Angie suspected a voyeurism kink with which she, the Mansion Members, and America were forced to sporadically engage.<br><br>Thanksgiving performed strange, disco-like moves. Magpie feigned a sprained ankle. Cara, Angie\u2019s vizier, aped Magpie\u2019s injury, creating a double reflection of nothing at all.<br><br>The screen flicked on. Its image was the ten-times life-size face of Chris Hurley.<br><br>The Mansion Members cheered.<br><br>\u201cGood evening, Mansion Members,\u201d intoned their god. \u201cAnd good evening, America! We are live at the <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> for the Master of the Mansion Competition!\u201d<br><br>The screen cut to a long shot of Chris Hurley. He wore a cream-colored suit and black Converse sneakers. An offscreen crowd purred their affection.<br><br>\u201cBut first let\u2019s get the opinion of some of our Mansion Members. Danielle: who is going to take the title of Master of the Mansion this week?\u201d<br><br>Danielle stretched her arms with a flapping motion utilized by competitive swimmers. She took her time thinking. Too long, really, for Chris Hurley opened his mouth to remind her of things being Live when she said, \u201cRobby!\u201d The Five Seasons cheered. Robby and Danielle were in a showmance.<br><br>Chis Hurley did not miss a beat. \u201cAnd you, Angie. How are you feeling about today\u2019s competition?\u201d<br><br>Angie spoke with carefully calculated bravado. \u201cWell, Chris, it\u2019s an important one. Gotta win to keep myself off the block. But that\u2019s the game, brah.\u201d She winked and gave the shaka\u2014an homage to her game-idol, Skremits, <em>Island Mansion! Canada<\/em> Season Three Runner-up\u2014and the roar of the live studio crowd echoed through speakers concealed in the sand.<br><br>\u201cSo, you predict you\u2019ll win the competition?\u201d The camera began a slow zoom-in on Chris Hurley\u2019s constrictor-snake lips.<br><br>\u201cFirst time for everything,\u201d she said. The crowd doubled their roar; at least she had them on her side.<br><br>The shot cut to Chris Hurley in long pacing the iconic <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> stage. Like some latter-day Donnie Osmond, his cream suit refracted the LED colors shining from the plexiglass.<br><br>\u201cWell, we\u2019ve got a twist for you, America!\u201d<br><br>But Chris Hurley\u2019s charisma had abruptly flown: his smile mummified, his eyes became flat whirlpools which lead to nowhere and nothing. Angie had the horrifying realization she was being administered a dose of reality, essentialized, which had somehow seeped through the force-field illusion of TV vitality.<br><br>Chris Hurley snapped back into the right.<br><br>\u201cThat\u2019s right, a twist, because with <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> you\u2019ve gotta\u2014\u201d he pointed off-screen toward the crowd.<br><br>The rejoinder: \u201cREMAIN ARGUS-EYED\u201d came so loud through the buried speakers that sand floated in unlikely, lingering patterns. Angie thought maybe she could read the patterns like the Greeks or Romans or whoever read animal entrails. But the sand fell, leaving nothing but bare air.<br><br>The <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> logo, a regal cranium, that of a General, perhaps, or Statesman, with eyes abounding, floated onscreen behind Chris Hurley. Each eye was actually a camera subtly periscoping from the flesh.<br><br>The Mansion Members groaned. Twists were seldom in their favor.<br><br>\u201cDon\u2019t look too sad, Mansion Members. The twist is that this is a <em>team<\/em> competition. That\u2019s right. With an individual winner. The last person standing.\u201d<br><br>Chris Hurley stopped talking. He blinked slowly. He blinked again. Silence roared in the empty space.<br><br>Then, as if nothing had happened, he continued:<br><br>\u201cBy random draw, Hank Eerie and Saul are captains. Hank Eerie picks first.\u201d<br><br>Angie could pretty much see their brains clicking away. Hank Eerie\u2019s fast as a haunted calculator. Saul\u2019s like the ticker tape on the day of a Stock Market crash.<br><br>\u201cBegin,\u201d said Chris Hurley. The <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> Argus lurked over his shoulder. Looking at everything, Angie reflected, was like looking at nothing.<br><br>\u201cAngie,\u201d said Hank Eerie.<br><br>\u201cUm, Thanksgiving,\u201d said Saul.<br><br>\u201cBol,\u201d said Hank Eerie.<br><br>\u201cRobby.\u201d<br><br>\u201cCara.\u201d<br><br>Saul hesitated between Magpie and Danielle. Thanksgiving whispered in his ear.<br><br>\u201cMagpie,\u201d he said.<br><br>Magpie joined her alliance while Danielle and Thanksgiving exchanged occultic nods.<br><br>Why would Thanksgiving bench her star player? Danielle\u2019s week three and week five Master of the Mansion terms proved her spooky ability to win in the clutch.<br><br>\u201cDanielle, you\u2019ll sit out,\u201d said Chris Hurley. \u201cYou have no chance of winning the title of Master of the Mansion this week, but you also cannot become Destitute.\u201d<br><br>\u201cFine with me, Chris,\u201d said Danielle, like an automaton who\u2019d been preprogramed to mimic grudging good humor.<br><br>\u201cNow, here\u2019s the real twist,\u201d said Chris Hurley. He waved one arm, a sudden matador, and the screen fell. Colossal Chris Hurley winked out of existence. What he\u2019d been blocking was a vast plexiglass obstacle course.<br><br>Two cattle chutes pointed at each other with a carousel between. The carousel\u2019s walls were not a grid of teardrop bulbs, and the carousel floor housed zero exotic, saddled beasts. Rather, a mound of purple-and-green balls revolved as centerpiece in a translucent expanse.<br><br>Chris Hurley\u2019s disembodied voice came from the world around them. \u201cTeam Hank Eerie is green. Team Saul, purple. Go to your color stations and personalize your costumes. I\u2019ll explain the rules&#8230;after our commercial break.\u201d<br><br>Angie heard the familiar <em>click<\/em>. She and the Cimmerians had deduced long ago that this <em>click<\/em> meant the main cameras weren\u2019t Live. No broadcasting except through the feeds.<br><br>But Chris Hurley went on.<br><br>\u201cMy head is killing me like I\u2019ve got Athena in there, dog. Who\u2019s got a Motrin? No, Chuck, I don\u2019t want an Advil because Marilyn kept Advil behind the mirror, and you just <em>know <\/em>she\u2019s got Advil behind J.T. Crignot\u2019s mirror. No, don\u2019t\u2014Wait? I\u2019m still mic\u2019d?\u201d<br><br>Another <em>click<\/em>.<br><br>\u201cDamn,\u201d said Robby.<br><br>There was a moment of solidarity between the alliances. Angie proffered her hand to Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving gave it to her crotch to crotch.<br><br>\u201cLuck,\u201d said Thanksgiving.<br><br>\u201cAnd to you,\u201d said Angie. Thanksgiving retreated to her side. Her sculpted body spoke of a relentless character. An implacability. Above all, a sign of weakness: to be built was to imply building was to imply foundational deficiencies.<br><br>Angie and her Cimmerians went to their cattle chute. Marking the entrance was a table and atop the table burned objects of demarcation: green plastic plates meant, obviously, to be inserted into the clear sheaths of their ant-costumes. Angie got the competition, now. They were a child\u2019s warring ant farms. Those types of ants you could dye whatever color you wanted by way of their nectar.<br><br>\u201cOne hundred and two,\u201d said Hank Eerie, who had begun incessantly counting, for some reason. Inserting the crown plate, 103\u2014the chest plate, 104.<br><br>\u201cYou okay, Hank?\u201d Angie asked.<br><br>Hank Eerie wrote in the sand \u2018105.\u2019 \u201cJust great,\u201d he said. He crossed out \u2018105\u2019 and wrote \u2018106.\u2019 Paused. Wrote \u2018107.\u2019<br><br>\u201cThink I should count the act of writing?\u201d he asked. Hank Eerie had entered the game as a Lutheran choir director and tattoo artist. Below his hairline crept the three Wise Men as earwigs.<br><br>\u201cI had a dream last night and it was just a number. Like, this huge number. The entire universe was the number.\u201d<br><br>\u201cWhat was the number?\u201d asked Cara.<br><br>\u201cIt feels ominous to say aloud,\u201d said Hank Eerie.<br><br>\u201cDon\u2019t let it bother you,\u201d said Bol. Angie suspected Bol and Hank Eerie had a final two deal.<br><br>\u201cLet\u2019s lead with Bol and Hank. Angie and I will come in last.\u201d Cara glinted brightly as an emerald. \u201cYou should get down like dogs, or whatever. Brush the balls between your legs. They won\u2019t be able to get any. We\u2019ll run the balls back.\u201d<br><br>\u201cThat\u2019s a good plan,\u201d she told Cara. She imagined herself in a plane, flying above, watching human-sized ants fighting inside a manufactured hill.<br><br>\u201cWell, boys?\u201d<br><br>\u201cListen, you gotta get low and get mean out there.\u201d Bol slapped at his broadness.<br><br>\u201cI\u2019ve been thinking,\u201d said Hank Eerie. \u201cWhen you apply my equation to Master of the Mansion competitions from older seasons, you find some interesting data.\u201d<br><br>\u201cI bet,\u201d said Bol.<br><br>\u201cBecause the outcome of this game is predictable. I\u2019m telling you. You take the number of Master of the Mansion comps, run it through the equation. Then you take last season\u2019s opening credits, the one with everyone\u2019s face and name? You count how long each person\u2019s face is on screen, divide it by the number from before, right, from the equation? And this gives us a number\u2014\u201d<br><br>\u201cChrist, Hank,\u201d said Bol.<br><br>\u201cVery interesting Hank,\u201d said Cara. \u201cBut what does it mean?\u201d<br><br>\u201cWe need to count off before the competition. Only, we need to randomize who starts the count. And include the Five Seasons. Whoever has the number, well. That\u2019s that.\u201d<br><br>\u201cThat\u2019s what?\u201d asked Bol.<br><br>\u201cThen that person is going home. Or for sure staying. Might as well be written in stone.\u201d<br><br>\u201cGood point, Hank,\u201d said Cara. \u201cBut it\u2019ll be hard to get that count, right? Not that we don\u2019t appreciate the legwork.\u201d <br><br>Angie massaged Hank Eerie\u2019s shoulders. \u201cLet\u2019s try and win anyway, Hank. I mean, we wouldn\u2019t want to disrupt the inevitable.\u201d<br><br>\u201cValid,\u201d said Hank Eerie.<br><br>\u201cHank! What is best in life?\u201d barked Cara. She\u2019d assumed an uncertainly foreign accent.<br><br>\u201cTo crush the Five Seasons, to see them driven before us, to hear the lamentations of their partners.\u201d Hank Eerie slapped his chest.<br><br>Across the way, through the revolving doorway, Angie watched the Five Seasons display mimicry in purple. Thanksgiving flipped in and out of existence as if in a stop motion dance. A beetle-esque purple crown marked her the Ant Queen.<br><br>There came a distinct <em>click.<\/em><br><br>\u201cAnd we\u2019re back!\u201d Chris Hurley\u2019s voice roared over the beach wind. His face accompanied; another screen had been inflated.<br><br>\u201cMansion Members. Are you ready for some&#8230;Ant Ball?\u201d Digital trumpets sounded: Bwah! Bwah! Bwah! For the viewers at home a chyron reading \u2018Ant Ball!\u201d would have just appeared below Chris Hurley\u2019s black-hole eyes and ivory veneers.<br><br>\u201cThe rules are simple,\u201d said Chris Hurley. \u201cWhichever team carries the most ant food back to their nest, wins. And the Mansion Member from that team with the most ant food in their nest will be crowned the next Master of the Mansion.<br><br>\u201cGet to your starting lines.\u201d Chris Hurley took a deep breath. In the shining plates of his teeth Angie imagined she could see the reflections of his wife mid-coitus with ratings rival J.T. Crignot.<br><br>The Cimmerians lined up. From this angle the Ant Farm was long and serious. Angie remembered how once, at Sunday School, a bird had slammed into the window. Her classmate Collie Green\u2014cursed with ever-overflowing earwax\u2014 had placed his hand where the mess would be if inside and outside were reversed.<br><br>\u201cDon\u2019t hold back,\u201d Angie said. \u201cThey won\u2019t.\u201d<br><br>\u201cLow and mean,\u201d said Bol.<br><br>\u201cOn your mark,\u201d said Chris Hurley. \u201cGet set. And&#8230;Go!\u201d<br><br>They went. Angie felt like she was one of four leopards banded together for a generational hunt. Then Bol careened off the plexiglass and everything was pounding and screams and reflections.<br><br>Hank Eerie tackled Saul and Bol started bucking Robby, which left Angie and Cara to face off against Magpie and Thanksgiving.<br><br>Thanksgiving shot forward. Angie tensed for a blow but instead Thanksgiving scooped balls behind her at devasting speed. Cara threw herself at Thanksgiving but only bounced off Thanksgiving\u2019s violent stiff arm\u2014rumor had it Thanksgiving had beaten a woman half-to-death for taking her parking spot at the gym.<br><br>Angie broke the tumult with an armful of Styrofoam balls. She dashed up the chute to her nest, #1 of four mesh containers which looked suspiciously like re-dressed laundry hampers. The wind made horrible gasping sounds that Angie did not pay attention to until she realized they weren\u2019t the wind but actual cries.<br><br>Chris Hurley wept on stage. The stage lights danced behind him. His eyes reflected rainbows.<br><br>And a second later the picture cut from Chris Hurley to video of the competition from a drone\u2019s lofty POV. From on high, Angie could see Hank Eerie divorce himself from the competition. He stood outside the plexiglass court and counted each Mansion Member.<br><br>The screen went black.<br><br>But Hank Eerie\u2019s finger ticked inexorably. It was all happening so fast. With each tick Angie felt as if a brassy tone was clanging beneath the skin of the world. If she let her eyes cross, she just might be able to see the heartbeat of all things pressing behind the air and sea and sand. But what she saw in her mind\u2019s eye was no living heart at all. Rather, a cold, oiled clock marking time until oblivion.<br><br>Hank Eerie ended his count. Which meant the winner of the competition had just been deduced. Ostensibly. He looked as if he were going to cry.<br><br>And in that terrible moment came two <em>clicks<\/em>. The first, familiar <em>click<\/em> of the broadcast cutting to commercial. And a second, deeper <em>click<\/em> which Angie intuited nobody else had heard. Only she and maybe Hank Eerie, far from the melee.<br><br>Angie reached toward a black camera which stalked off the top of the plexiglass. No red pinhole light shone. The tiny red universe inside had gone dark. Black hole. Dead star.<br><br>The camera was not recording.<br><br>She jogged to the next closest. It was similarly blind. She looked up.<br><br>Not a drone in the sky.<br><br>And so, they were alone for the first time in 43 days. Just nine people playing a game.<br><br>Across the way, Thanksgiving squatted in her own nest. She raised a black baton above her head. Oh god. Trailing from its ragged end were copper-tipped tentacles of red and blue and green.<br><br>\u201cWe\u2019re free!\u201d Thanksgiving screamed.<br><br>The words unleashed a frenzy. Cara, sweet Cara, slithered toward Magpie and bit her squarely on the calf. Then she dodged from the carousel and joined Angie at the nest.<br><br>\u201cFull tilt, down there,\u201d said Cara, tossing her balls into the #2 nest. <br><br>A tuft of skin stuck between her red teeth.<br><br>Angie didn\u2019t know what to say so instead she clapped Cara on the back. Cara bounded back into the fray like a released dog.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Thanksgiving held her black scepter aloft and the wires wove around her wrist. Angie could not parse where Thanksgiving ended and the circuitry began. Her hand was now the aspect of another body, a spinal cord connected to the brainstem of a larger host of eyes, each one 65 inches and open in every living room in America. Eyes? No, for they did not see at all, but instead reflected another organ\u2019s recording, gave strange expression to distant mindscapes. They were a new organ burgeoning to indicate and organize a new sense.<br><br>\u201cDanielle!\u201d called Thanksgiving.<br><br>Danielle drifted from the bench like Agent Orange on the breeze. She slipped through the carousel and her elbow struck Bol in the neck and he went down yelping. Cara gawped at her, and Danielle popped her in the nose.<br><br>\u201cShit,\u201d said Cara. She sat. Blood poured through her fingers.<br><br>Danielle took Cara by the braids and before she could do worse Bol slapped Danielle so hard that her head hit the sand before her feet did.<br><br>Cara crawled to safety while Robby confronted Bol. Danielle, suddenly risen, kicked Bol in the crotch.<br><br>Angie\u2019s Cimmerian\u2019s were outnumbered three to five. How could she remain aloof? Her body ran with currents as ancient as the moon\u2019s tug of the sea. Fate carried her or else everything she perceived became fate.<br><br>\u201cCimmeria!\u201d she screamed.<br><br>Magpie advanced toward her. \u201cYou\u2019re so fucking lame, you know?\u201d she said.<br><br>Angie dropped her hips low. She poked her right foot straight forward and her left at a right angle. She pretended to hold her epee.<br><br>\u201cWhy are you standing like that?\u201d asked Magpie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cYou\u2019re named after a bird,\u201d spat Angie. And before Magpie could do more than gawp Angie gave her the fleche. No sword, but she she\u2019d accounted for that in the spacing. Her fist punched Magpie\u2019s sternum.<br><br>\u201cGahhhhh,\u201d said Magpie. She dropped to her knees.<br><br>Angie kicked her in the face.<br><br>\u201cCimmeria!\u201d screamed her warriors.<br><br>Angie and Thanksgiving locked eyes. As Angie sprinted toward her rival, she had a vision of the Milky Way hung over a field of electrical cords fruiting with twin-slit outlets.<br><br>Thanksgiving tried to thwock her with the camera-limb. There was absolutely no separation between the two objects now. Angie feinted left and went right. Thanksgiving\u2019s manicured claws took three furrows of abdomen skin, but Angie was past, running, scooping up a handful of balls and not even bothering to turn around before diving to the side while Thanksgiving\u2019s heel sundered the air she\u2019d recently occupied.<br><br>\u201cYou\u2019re mine,\u201d Thanksgiving said.<br><br>Angie tossed a ball into Thanksgiving\u2019s face and as it hit, she gave the ol\u2019 fleche, again, hanging her elbow out to smack Thanksgiving in the face as she whizzed by.<br><br>Her fencing coach\u2019s adage was that a proper fleche ends on your face. She was dragging herself up from that stumble, elbow smarting, when Thanksgiving fell upon her. Three quick punches to her kidneys and Angie vomited a single cricket, undigested. She tried to struggle away but Thanksgiving pressed knees into the small of her back.<br><br>Thanksgiving ripped her head up by the hair and pressed her face into the plexiglass, experimentally, as if to figure out the relative strength of the interacting surfaces.<br><br>\u201cNo,\u201d said Angie.<br><br>Thanksgiving did not answer. Angie wrenched around to see Thanksgiving in her periphery. Only her chin, square yet cherubic.<br><br>The hand in Angie\u2019s hair reset its clench.<br><br>Angie knew she was alone. Nobody was coming to help her. The plexiglass was so far away and so, so close. Through it she could see grains of sand tumbling in the wind.<br><br>She wondered how many slams until her nose broke\u2014no more than two. Her jaw could withstand perhaps seven or eight. She mused on whether to keep her eyes open. Was it best to watch the glass approach, or to experience a brief span of nothingness before the pain?<br><br>A sudden rush of movement behind her. The weight lifted. The hand released her hair.<br><br>\u201cRun!\u201d cried Bol.<br><br>Angie scooted away. Above her two titans raged. Bol roared as loud as any mother Bigfoot. He overpowered Thanksgiving, who twisted away, scooped an errant ball, and retreated.<br><br>Angie struggled to her feet. A white, square splinter stuck out of her elbow. She yanked it free. Nothing hurt, yet. Bol took the shard from her hand and held it against his lips.<br><br>\u201cThis, my dear, is a human tooth.\u201d<br><br>They both laughed. Couldn\u2019t stop. She and Bol walked the chute and scored with no interference. Their ant food piles far outstripped the other team; the game was up. Against all odds, they had won.<br><br>Except Robby and Hank Eerie were still in the carousel. Between them rolled the last ball of ant food. They lunged back and forth for it until the ball popped free and all at once Hank Eerie was sliding onto Robby. He pinned Robby\u2019s shoulders down with his knees.<br><br>\u201cHank, get off me.\u201d<br><br>Hank Eerie gripped Robby\u2019s collarbone. He leaned far, far back.<br><br>\u201cYou\u2019re number nine,\u201d said Hank.<br><br>\u201cWhat?\u201d Robby shook his head. \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d<br><br>And all at once Angie became frightened. Terrified, actually, because Robby was terrified. You could see it all over him.<br><br>\u201cHank, buddy,\u201d pleaded Robby. \u201cNight one, right? We shoot pool, right?\u201d<br><br>Hank Eerie punched him in the face.<br><br>\u201cHank,\u201d Robby said, but it came out like \u201cPhrank.\u201d<br><br>Hank did not relent. Half-a-dozen flat smacks later and Angie realized Hank was counting. Seven, eight. He started over at nine.<br><br>Bol ran down the chute. Saul and Thanksgiving ran from the other side. They were awfully slow compared to Hank\u2019s piston. Angie wanted to laugh except she did not, at all.<br><br>But before they could reach him, Hank Eerie stopped. It was like watching a switch turn. And, in cosmic symmetry, a deep-rooted <em>click<\/em> broke the crystal silence of their world. The <em>click<\/em> of a hundred microphones and a hundred cameras become revenant.<br><br>On the screen blazed a projection of the <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> Argus and the subtitled message: \u201cTechnical Difficulties! Be back soon! Sponsored by <em>The Tile Farm<\/em>.\u201d<br><br>Angie felt as if her senses had moved past their normal scaffolding into architecture ancient and wild. The <em>Island Mansion!<\/em> Argus morphed into a wasp nest; its camera-eyes became blindly recording silver larvae.<br><br>Chris Hurley\u2019s voice broke out from everywhere. \u201cStop, please. Stop. Where\u2019s security? Where the hell is&#8230;\u201d<br><br>Angie allowed Chris Hurley to blend into the world around her. Into the wind and the sand and the sun. The cameras were nothing but plastic flora. Just a new nature, a novel variety in this world of microplastics and islands made of garbage.<br><br>Hank Eerie rose to his feet. His right fist was a mangle. \u201cWe\u2019ve won it, now. It\u2019s only the structure of possible worlds\u2014the essence of mathematics.\u201d<br><br>\u201cYou should sit down, Hank,\u201d said Bol.<br><br>Hank sat down next to Robby.<br><br>\u201cNo, like, over here.\u201d Bol tried to help Hank Eerie away, but Hank would not budge. Dimly, she noted the throbbing approach of speedboats on the waves. Of buzzing drones dropping to head-height. Of Mansion doors slamming open, of the approaching footstep of production, finally revealed, about to intercede in the game.<br><br>On a reflex she looked to the sky, looked away from Robby\u2018s revolving corpse. She could feel production members around her, halting, likewise staring skyward.<br><br>A shadow rolled over. A plane? No, too massive for that. And if it was a cloud, it moved against the wind.<br><br>The day drew suddenly into false evening. Above, the shadow stretched on and on until Angie began to make out its intricacies: the hint of concrete chambers, of columns, of sharp arches in that style called brutalism, of a vast weight held impossibly aloft.<br><br>Lower, lower, she willed it, and the craft sunk at her whim. She was not surprised. Its hull was composed of hexagonal prisms, some combination of interstate underpass and Mosque arch in infinitude. Set within each was a digital jewel\u2014a shining pinprick of red light. She willed the craft lower, again, and this time it flashed brighter than the sun and\u2014<br><br>It was gone.<br><br>Its last trace was a violent glare that stained her vision as would a neon clockface at night, except writ large, exposing a dimension more important than time, one that held nascent senses for her and her like.<br><br>She blinked, over and over, the world flitting in and out of existence. She could see the drama of Hank Eerie\u2019s shackling and of Robby\u2019s covering and all the rest. But this was secondary to what she saw within herself, inside her eyes, where those shimmering stains squirmed into mysterious shapes. Into stage-of-the-art organs. Into sensory apparatuses ushering a strange, new reality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p><strong>__________<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><strong>J.M.J. Brewer<\/strong> (he\/him) is a staunch supporter of nature conservation. He is an assistant professor of English at Tarleton State University. You can find more of his short fiction at\u00a0<a href=\"http:\/\/jmjbrewer.com\/\">jmjbrewer.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"alignleft size-full\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"438\" height=\"211\" src=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-15484\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg 438w, https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1-300x145.jpg 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 438px) 100vw, 438px\" \/><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-large-font-size\">\ud83e\udca0 <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2025\/01\/27\/sweeter-than-sugar\/\">Back<\/a> <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2025\/01\/28\/trip-to-joshua-tree-life-drawing-engagement\/\">Next<\/a> \ud83e\udca1<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">To learn more about submitting your work to <em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/boudin-submissions\/\">Boudin<\/a><\/em> or applying to McNeese State University&#8217;s Creative Writing <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/mfa-application-submissions\/\">MFA program<\/a>, please visit Submissions for details.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Entomology J.M.J. Brewer __________ Day 43. Nine Mansion Members remained in the game. Angie awoke atop a dead arm because it was difficult to sleep comfortably in a bed shaped like a banana peel. This season\u2019s Island Mansion! theme was \u201cInspecting Insects,\u201d and in turn the Destitute Room theme was \u201cTrash Heap.\u201d She and the&hellip;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":42,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[222],"tags":[75,146,77,26],"class_list":["post-18351","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-winter-extravaganza","tag-boudin","tag-fiction-2","tag-mcneesereview","tag-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18351","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/42"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18351"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18351\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18759,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18351\/revisions\/18759"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18351"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18351"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18351"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}