I was eating a spilled dollop of strawberry jam from the floor when I heard the cries. Screams for help fell through the air. The room was dark, but I could hear them from the corner of the kitchen.
Some of the other flies stayed where they were, buzzing around, pretending not to notice. They just continued eating from an old package of chicken that was left in the trash. My wife died begging for help as Man laughed pulling off her wings. She begged for help just as they were. I couldn’t just keep eating. I couldn’t.
I didn’t know what I would do, but I had to do something. We only have 24 hours to live. To spend that time tortured clinging to a false sense of hope. You wouldn’t wish that on your enemies. I flew towards the noise, across the linoleum floor and up to the crumbling ceiling.
There was something sweet that cut through the air. It smelled like… like honey. The smell was coming from the same direction as the screams. What could it be? Panic took over. I couldn’t think about that smell now. I fluttered my wings as fast as I could.
When I saw all those flies hanging from the ceiling in a long line clustered together, I froze. “Help!” they screamed. The sounds were deafening. I reached out my hand to grab them, but a tremendous weight fought me. “Help! Please, please help!” they continued.
I pulled and pulled as hard as I could but nothing worked. Whatever was holding them was stronger than I could ever dream to be. Tears rolled down my face at my own helplessness. I prayed for strength, but nothing changed.
“Help, you monsters!” I shouted at the others buzzing around me. No one listened. What was one more cry for help? They didn’t care. They only wanted another meal. They only wanted to get fat off their own stupid sense of righteousness.
I pulled again. My muscled tensed until my body ached. Still, I pulled and fought to save even one. Just one would be enough. I pulled and pulled and pulled. There was nothing I could do. I collapsed in exhaustion. Their cries continued, grinding into my ear like a loudspeaker, never letting me forget how useless I was.
I would have given anything to stop their screams. “Please, please just stop,” I prayed. The prayers fell on deaf ears. Another hour had passed. Soon my time would be up. In a last-ditch effort, I wondered if I would find something in the room to release them.
“I have to go,” I whispered to the others. “I will be back. I promise.”
“Don’t leave. You can’t leave us alone.”
“I’ll be back. Trust me. You won’t die alone.” I hugged the poor creature. And left. But I couldn’t move. I pushed my wings harder. Still, I didn’t move. Looking back, I saw my leg stuck to
The others around me fought the paper. As they fought and fought, their arms and wings were ripped from their bodies. I had no more strength to give. No more tears to cry. I looked around and saw
Black mold was creeping along the ceiling. Wallpaper was peeling from the corners of the room. Greased stained the walls. Dirty plates lined the counters. Old crumbs from a thousand old meals blanketed the yellow linoleum floor. This was where I would die. This cesspool would be my tomb. A room of no significance to mark a life of none. All my struggles to help preserve life would be forgotten. I would be another meaningless gesture in an unforgiving world.
My eyes caught the small pile of strawberry jam on the floor that I was eating so long ago. Others had found it and would soon suck away the last bits of its sweetness. I thought of that strawberry jam, so sweet, so delicious. Closing my eyes, I waited for my final few moments as the last of my 24 hours passed by. I died and I knew that my death meant nothing.
Thousands of years ago a man dropped dead somewhere in Africa. As the sun beat down on his corpse, his body bloated. It turned green and rancid and
The maggot grew until he could fly. Other maggots grew with him. He gave them their purpose and sent them out into the world. The maggot died before he could see the sunrise of the next day.
But other maggots grew. They flew to faraway places. They saw enormous pyramids grow out of the desert as they feasted on the sweat of slaves. They ate the food scraps of kings. They traveled with armies and flourished at the death left behind by countless wars and invasions. With every corpse, they multiplied and became stronger. They saw Man build cities and literature and art, just as they saw Man destroy themselves over and over again. They traveled the seas with slaves and explorers alike. And they grew stronger and stronger with every day.
For each sunrise, a new generation would die and a new generation would emerge. Each day they lived, they felt love and loss. They felt joy and depression. They struggled and thrived. They had families, hopes, and dreams. They fought, wondering where they came from. They could never have the grace to know their journey beyond the short 24 hours of life they had. But still, they fought on.
The flies went on long expeditions across endless waters. As Man created farming to feed, the flies fed. As Man made industry to grow, the flies grew from their labor. As Man made technology to flourish, the flies flourished into countless hoards.
Then one day, a fly was born in the musty basement of a man. The fly, not unlike any other, found his way upstairs through a putrid smelling home with peeling wallpaper and yellow linoleum floors. He met the love of his life and they decided to have kids. Before they had a chance to though, one of the man’s children found this fly’s wife in a window sill. The boy grabbed this fly and ripped her wings off. So a family was never born.
The husband accepted her loss with dignity and tried to continue life alone, knowing he would never find someone who made him feel like she did. He could never find another mate and spread his family line. And for that, he felt shame but refused to replace his wife. He watched the other flies, trying to make sense of their existence, of his existence, and how something so horrible could happen to an innocent person like his wife.
One day though, while eating strawberry jam from the floor he heard cries for help. Because of his morals, he went to help them. He failed, and ultimately it cost him his life. He died taking up the last open space of sticky tape on the fly trap that Man had set. And he knew that his life meant nothing. He had no children, he saved no lives, and he saw no beauty. His 24 hours was of only despair.
After his death, Man returned home drunk. He stumbled to the fly trap and looked at it knowing it was full and that he would need to finally throw it away. The man reached up and pulled it away from the ceiling. He turned towards the trash, but as he did so he slipped on the strawberry jam. The man fell, hitting his head on the counter. While unconscious, he bled out and died n the yellow linoleum floor.
As the man’s body bloated, out of his rancid corpse a maggot emerged. Then more followed. Those maggots grew into flies and spread throughout the house. They fed on the rotting chicken left in the trash, the mold from every corner, the shit that lined the toilet. They beheld a great feast and they flourished surrounding the bloated corpse of the drunken Man.
Seven days passed before Man’s neighbor called the police reporting a foul smell coming from the house. Police arrived at the scene and knocked on the man’s door. The only sound they heard was the buzzing of flies. They kicked in the door and immediately choked on the putrid air.
Out of the putrid air, a great nation of flies burst forth. The police swatted away the disgusting creatures until the air cleared. Covering their mouths, they walked inside. They saw the bloated decaying man on the kitchen floor covered in maggots. They wondered if this death meant anything.