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157 in stock


By Paul D. Wilson

ISBN: 978-1-84747-490-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 23
Key Themes: metaphor, life, fiction, child and adult audience, Ants!


“Colonies” follows the story of three ants; Ara, Squadro and Rane, as they make their way from the desecrated colony at Hotel Ethos, Calvi, Corsica and head out to broaden their horizons and possibly make a few friends, and enemies, on the way.

About the Author

Paul Wilson (b. 1984) is a first time author who wrote this book for children and adults whilst in hospital. He is also a keen musician, having played in orchestras, and is a former member of the York Minster Choir. He plays viola and piano.

Book Extract

Ants, by nature, are strange. I once thought to myself: does a human being looking at an ant stampede see the same thing as the stampede looking at a human being? The answer, quite simply, is probably not. Ants travel in rivers, in scattered patterns, scavengers of the world of logic. Can we talk to ants? Again, probably not, however their antennae must be attracted to cohesion, to order, much like us humans and our so-called extra sensory perceptions. I conclude that ants know us better than we know ourselves.

The adventure begins in Corsica, an island off the south-east coast of France, 1994 AD:

Madame duPont works hard for a living. She is working hard to defend herself from the traitors who are trying to shut down her hotel.
“Traitors.” she mutters under her breath.
A green Ford Ka pulls into the driveway. A man emerges, hands full of boxed paperwork.
“You know nothing,” says Madame duPont, again sotto voce.
The unnamed man approaches.
“You have been warned.” whispers Madame duPont.
What happened next? The sheer and utter wrath of Madame duPont was unleashed on the innocent looking twenty-something, much to his discomfort. Baguettes went flying everywhere.
“Madame,” says the man, “we have nothing left to offer you.”
“I see.” says duPont “You want to boot me out of my hotel, replace it with another hotel. Flippin’ fantastic.”
Madame duPont is fiercely sarcastic at times. Occasionally she invites friends over for a meal, her husband being deceased. She is fond of bottles of red wine. She is eighty years old, plays an accordion in her spare time and looks wistfully at the azure crystal set into the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand from time to time.
“I apologize” said the man, “sign here please.”
Reluctantly, she did, totally aware that underneath that mans shiny, suited exterior lay a heart of absolute zero.
“May I collect my pictures?” asks Madame duPont.
“You have two weeks,” replied the man, nonchalantly.


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