For the Flies
A single fly. Resting on the inside of a window. Rubbing his front legs together, like an old woman warming her hands by the fire.
Another fly lands on the window. A third. A fourth. Ten. Twenty. They keep on coming. And soon the glass is alive with a carpet of black and grey chaos.
From the outside, they are silent. Inside, they hum and they buzz and they flap their wings. They stomp their feet on a half-eaten sandwich. They glide over a cup of unfinished coffee, now covered with a furry skin of mould.
Beside the abandoned lunch, a chair. Behind the chair, a shoe. A leg. Twisted. A hip. Fractured. A heart. Beatless.
Somebody’s mother. Somebody’s grandmother. Broken.
A feast for the flies.
This was written for a competition based on the prompt “fly”. When looking through the other entries, I realised that most of them were about flying in some form or other.
It’s a little bit disturbing to realise that when presented with the prompt “fly”, most people automatically think of something as freeing and beautiful as flying, whereas my mind automatically thinks fly > flies > dead body > decomposing.
I’m sure a good psychologist could help there, but perhaps it’s best not to pull at that thread.