One Small Voice

At the end of a lovely treed street, in a small house with a striped awning, lived a tiny girl. She wasn’t exceptionally beautiful or talented, and there was no one on this earth particularly grateful for her existence. Yet she knew, from a place deep within her, that she was destined for greatness. That she wasn’t like the others. Not like her mother, who seemed satisfied to produce babies she’d then quickly ignore. Not like her sisters, who, like her, had endless chore lists but unlike like her, showed no desire for anything more. And certainly not like her brothers, who disappeared to God knows where, returning only if and when they felt like it.

She wondered why it was that some are born into royalty while others seem destined, right from birth, to plod along dutifully, working long hours just to survive. She was also, though no one had ever warned her about the dangers the world held, acutely aware of the fragility of life. She had eyes, didn’t she?

Maybe her knowing came from living in tune with the land, seeing up close how a life could be strong and vibrant one minute only to end in what seemed no more than a wave of a hand. Everyone, it appeared to her, was just one misstep from their demise.

Despite the danger and injustice she witnessed almost daily, there was a joyfulness about her that work and routine couldn’t dull. It stemmed, she believed, from the light she felt inside, so large she sometimes wondered how it could remain contained in her small body, and from the quiet voice within that pushed her forward, past danger, past fear. They comforted and emboldened her, even on moonless nights when it felt as though the sunlight might never return. She knew that even if it didn’t, she held within her a power so great that long after she left this world, the stars would whisper her name and twinkle in admiration.

It was on a Tuesday when the idea came to her. She would do something so enormous and brave that other lives would be forever changed. She spent the day deep in thought, her body performing its daily tasks while her mind worked out the details of her plan. She should have been frightened—anyone else would have been—but she felt a sense of calm sureness. It’s not that she was unaware of the risk she was about to take—she knew from experience the price she might pay—but in her heart, she knew that to fulfill her purpose, she must rise up and meet her destiny.

She went over the plan in her head until she could see the scene playing out, every step an exercise in precision. Timing would be everything. There would be no room for error. If she acted prematurely or hesitated for even a moment, the lives she hoped to save would be lost and her mission would have been for nothing. She made a series of practice runs, perfecting her timing. She counted her steps and noted how long it took for her to reach her destination after the creaking the screen door made when it was opened.

When it was time, she approached the door, careful to stay hidden behind the tall hedge next to the stoop. She heard the couple nearing, their voices deceptively playful. She knew what they were capable of. She’d seen the man, his hand raised in angry frustration, swinging wildly. The woman, too. She was quieter about the whole thing, but when she grabbed the long stick with its thin, flat end, she was every bit as dangerous.

The door creaked and the tiny girl darted out from behind the greenery, placing herself directly in front of the man. She called quickly to those she hoped to save, warning them to take flight, away from the door, and for them to tell the others to stay away and never return to the house. She saw them retreat and her heart swelled with gladness. Then, as she knew would happen, something large descended rapidly over her body, blocking the light. She heard the man’s voice, the last sound she would hear before her world became permanently dark. “Goddamn ant!”

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(GBE #53, Fiction, Prompt: “Courage”)