Alternative Culture Magazine


Alternative Literature



The Story of the Fly

by Josh O'Rourke

This is the story of the fly.

The fly flew. It zigged. it zagged. It buzzed around the blue sky in a delighted, frenetic, crazy manner, spinning zany circles and loop-the-loops. It was close to free, its only masters being the wind and the cold night air.

No one watched the fly, but it was still happy. It was still there. It lived. It flew. It was young and virile; if it saw another fly of the opposite sex it would almost certainly attempt to mate with it. However, it did not see any other flies.

It did not hope to see any other flies. It did not hope it wouldn't see any other flies. It simply flew. It still thought; but only of the things that were important; only of the things that were happening. Not of the things that may or may not happen.

The flying fly flew in nirvana. It flew pissing in the breeze. The fly did not think of itself.

As the fly flew, it began to grow older, the sun began to wither it. It did not fear its decay, for it had always known this was inevitable. It couldn't fear what it knew.

The crazy life of the fly was one of amicable peace.

Until, that is, it found its way inside.

Inside, the fly thought it would grow old and fat comfortably.

It did grow old, it did grow fat and it was comfortable.

To others the fly had always been a scourge, a pest, a disease-ridden insect. The fly was not this to the fly, though; the fly was the fly to the fly. Others' opinions of the fly didn't affect the fly because the fly was just the fly.

But inside the fly stopped being crazy. It used its brain. It learnt from experience. It learnt that if it was crazy inside it would beat itself on the windows, it learnt that if it was crazy inside it would be poisoned...or swatted.

So the fly grew old and fat quietly and comfortably. As the fly got older it started to notice things and wonder things. It was uncertain, not free; but it was still comfortable.

The fly became very slow. Then the summer came. The other flies respected it... until it was swatted by a bare hand--its entrails left as a permanent reminder to the other flies, a gooey mess on the kitchen bench.

The other flies inside wished; they wished they knew what the entrails meant; they wished they knew why this had happened. The flies outside didn't.


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