The Queen Mother

With a calm voice and a radiant gaze,
she paints a glowing future.
Anne isn’t sure whether to admire her—
or to be afraid.

Finally! From the television screen came the familiar ceremonial music. Anne stood up and began skillfully weaving between the beds. Being late wasn’t exactly encouraged either.

Reflections on the scene

⸻ ❦ ⸻

– ❦ –

Size, in this story, is not just a matter of scale—it’s a matter of power, perception, and vulnerability. With one bite of the mushroom, Anne tumbles into yet another unfamiliar reality: the insect world.

And it’s not magical. It’s overwhelming.

Antazonia isn’t whimsical. It buzzes with industrial noise, militarized order, and nervous tension. The once-distant name turns into an actual place—one with structure, hierarchy, and suspicion. It’s not hostile, exactly. But it’s certainly not welcoming.

Anne’s arrival feels like a fall behind enemy lines. The air is thick, the terrain alien, and the ants don’t hesitate. The soldier ants are armored and silent. The worker is chatty and eager—but only to curry favor. Everyone speaks in ranks: citizen soldier, citizen worker. Everything is categorized, disciplined, and watched.

And Anne? She’s an intruder.

Her shrinking here isn’t just physical—it’s symbolic. She has no power, no say, no direction. Her belongings are taken. She and Pouchy are literally lifted into the air and examined. This isn’t a world of conversation—it’s a world of protocol.

Still, this isn’t villainy. The ants aren’t evil. They’re organized. Efficient. Trained to protect their borders. But that doesn’t make them gentle. Antazonia offers safety—but at a cost.

And through it all, Anne begins to realize something quietly profound: magic, freedom, curiosity—none of it protects you when systems close in. Here, the question isn’t “What can I do?” It’s “What rules will they make me follow?”

She escaped Haino’s spiders—but she’s not free.
She’s just somewhere new.