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    Ants and Angels
    Ants and Angels
    Ants and Angels
    Ebook55 pages49 minutes

    Ants and Angels

    By Ulf Wolf

    ()

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    About this ebook

    I know of a place. It's not very big. It's in the heart, just before you get to the heart of hearts. There's a little antechamber there where unsavory intentions gather and linger and linger—for no matter how hard they wish and try to, they cannot enter the heart of hearts, I'm pretty sure of that; at least some of the time.

    This is the little padded room from where, they say—I read this somewhere not so long ago—where they say that if thoughts could kill, we would de-people (if not de-life entirely) our planet in a matter of months.

    This is also the place where I often dwell these days. I call it my grizzly place, sometimes I call it my scary place, or my darkness. This is from where I cannot help myself. But right now I am not there, right now I'm lucid.

    ====

    Some hold that we were created on the 4th day, but this is not so. We were not created. None of us were. We were all one with Michael, who was as God, and whom some call Sabbathiel. We had not wings then. Nor had we bodies. We simply were.

    ====

    Dad says God created Texans because he needed people who liked Texas to fill it up with. I have no idea what he's talking about. What's there not to like? There's no better place on Earth. There's no end to Texas. The rest of the world, and that includes Africa—which is mostly a desert as big as an ocean called the Sahara Desert—could just about fit in our back yard, where we have lots of ants.

    Some days my grizzly place is crawling with them—with ants, not Texans—and then I begin to itch and I pour gasoline on them and strike a match to them and see them scurry and fry and flee and leave, all of them, except for the crispy ones which lie upside down and twitch for a while with their little charred and wispy legs before they stop twitching and die and smell bad like something Mother's left too long in the oven, when she starts swearing and Dad starts swearing too for now it'll be a while before dinner's ready, she's got to think of something else she says, and why does she have to do everything, anyway, while she slips on those big green and yellow and pink here and there oven mitts and pulls that burnt and smoking and smelly thing out of the oven and tosses it into the garbage with a big fat thud and another swear word or two and some mutter mutter which I don't really make out along with it, where it still smells of smoke and fire, though it doesn't smell of gasoline, like dead ants do, while Dad returns to pretending to read the paper.

    The best thing in all of Texas is Bethe. That's what I think. At least when I am lucid, like I am lucid now. For then I can read and think and say and dream and write things down, things I don't even understand when the ants re-invade my scary place and I have to fetch more gasoline.

    I burned down a tool shed once.

    ====

    By the end of the 4th day some of us had turned into stars.

    There are those who speak of this. Isaiah, for one, for he gave the Fallen Angel a name, he called him the Morning Star. In other places he calls him the Defiant Star, the Rebel Angel. And in this he is right, of course, though he may not know where or how or why: for to be an angel, you must have fallen: defiant, rebellious. I should know.

    Angels have always been superior to man, but not always inferior to divinity.

    We were all aspatial at first, neither occupying space nor being enclosed by it nor containing it. We were nowhere and everywhere, surrounded by nothing, suffusing everything, all two million of us. We were God's engine of war.

    Some claim that we have beginnings but have no end. This is false, we have no beginning. In that we are all as Michael, who is as God, who has no beginning.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUlf Wolf
    Release dateApr 10, 2015
    ISBN9781311494658
    Ants and Angels
    Author

    Ulf Wolf

    Ulf is a Swedish name that once meant Wolf. So, yes, Wolf Wolf, that's me. I was born Ulf Ronnquist one snowy night in late October, in one of those northern Swedish towns that are little more than a clearing in the forest. Fast forward through twenty Swedish years, ten or so English ones, and another twenty-four in the US and you'll find me in front of an immigrations officer conducting the final citizenship interview, at the end of which he asks me, "What name would you like on your passport?" And here I recall what a friend had told me, that you can pick just about any name you want at this point, and I heard me say "Ulf Wolf." That's how it happened. Scout's honor. Of course, I had been using Ulf Wolf as a pen name for some time before this interview, but I hadn't really planned to adopt that as my official U.S. name. But I did. I have written stories all my life. Initially in Swedish, but for the last twenty or so years in English. To date I have written six novels, four novellas and two scores of stories; along with many songs and poems. My writing focus these days is on life's important questions (in my view): Who are we? What are we doing here? And how do we break out of this prison?

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      Book preview

      Ants and Angels - Ulf Wolf

      Ants and Angels

      Ulf Wolf

      Smashwords Edition

      October 2019

      Copyright

      Ants and Angels

      Copyright © 2019 by Wolfstuff

      http://wolfstuff.com

      All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Smashwords License Notes

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ::

      Contents

      Ants and Angels

      Contribution

      About the Author

      There’s a whisper:

      All the angels are fallen. Were it not so, we would not exist.

      I know of a place. It’s not very big. It’s in the heart, just before you get to the heart of hearts. There’s a little antechamber there where unsavory intentions gather and linger and linger—for no matter how hard they wish and try to, they cannot enter the heart of hearts, I’m pretty sure of that; at least some of the time.

      This is the little padded room from where, they say—I read this somewhere not so long ago—where they say that if thoughts could kill, we would de-people (if not de-life entirely) our planet in a matter of months.

      This is also the place where I often dwell these days. I call it my grizzly place, sometimes I call it my scary place, or my darkness. This is from where I cannot help myself. But right now I am not there, right now I’m lucid.

      :

      Some hold that we were created on the 4th day, but this is not so. We were not created. None of us were. We were all one with Michael, who was as God, and whom some call Sabbathiel. We had not wings then. Nor had we bodies. We simply were.

      :

      Dad says God created Texans because he needed people who liked Texas to fill it up with. I have no idea what he’s talking about. What’s there not to like? There’s no better place on Earth. There’s no end to Texas. The rest of the world, and that includes Africa—which is mostly a desert as big as an ocean called the Sahara Desert—could just about fit in our back yard, where we have lots of ants.

      Some days my grizzly place is crawling with them—with ants, not Texans—and then I begin to itch and I pour gasoline on them and strike a match to them and see them scurry and fry and flee and leave, all of them, except for the crispy ones which lie upside down and twitch for a while with their little charred and wispy legs before they stop twitching and die and smell bad like something Mother’s left too long in the oven, when she starts swearing and Dad starts swearing too for now it’ll be a while before dinner’s ready, she’s got to think of something else she says, and why does she have to do everything, anyway, while she slips on those big green and yellow and pink here and there oven mitts and pulls that burnt and smoking and smelly thing out of the oven and tosses it into the garbage with a big fat thud and another swear word or two and some mutter mutter which I don’t really make out along with it, where it still smells of smoke and fire, though it doesn’t smell of gasoline, like dead ants do, while Dad returns to pretending to read the paper.

      The best thing in all of Texas is Bethe. That’s what I think. At least when I

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