Some writings P3: The Day I Hoovered Them Flies

Hey everyone, thanks again for the support I’ve been getting so far. I thought I’d change gears a bit today and go for the really random. Like, really random. It’s just a little piece I wrote on the way to an exam about ten days ago, my mind was shooting off in weird directions. It’s a short little piece but I’m pleased with how it turned out. Let me know what you think!

 

The Day I Hoovered Them Flies

 

Them flyin’ makes for good buzzing don’t it? But my bag growls louder– don’t’cha hear? It goes for them five at a time– see there’s a spot of them on the lamp, see there’s a spot of them on the corner. Bam! Swuck! Zwoosh! See there a some looking out at the trees, see there’s a some flyin’ towards the door. They think they can hide? Think they’re a match for me and my vacuum?

            But then they’re gone and I stop the vacuum. Around me I left nothing but a few upturned couches and some smashed dishes. The room’s thick with that apple vinegar– some smashed shells and some that chose to rot. And those guys, well, they weren’t much, but they were kinda all I had. They didn’t mind this place so much– out here, the middle of a’ the woods– they didn’t mind my swell (kinda loved it, didn’t they, didn’t they go and make their babies in it?)

            I let them live. I didn’t swipe down the counter, I didn’t throw out my peels. They came flyin’ in here– the first two, the goddamn Adam n’Eve fly– and chose this place to make a family. They had a good time of it for a while, and I kinda enjoyed watching them zoom around, make their homes and have some family reunions by the windowsill. It was kinda fun for them, kinda fun for me too.

            But we’re talking about lives here– we’re talking about flies here! Landlady Judy didn’t much appreciate them buzzin’ round her hair and making her feel uncomfortable, and that I can understand (a woman’s way is a woman’s right, after all). So I the vacuum got out and sucked up the rest of them.

            And now they’re gone. When I listened to the radio I’m sure they were buzzing along with me. With the music. Now if you go and ask a scientist, he’d say flies are creepy, have eight eyes and a lot of strange hair making scratchy work. I’m not a scientist, nor have I talked to one in a long time. Me, I see those flies like I see people. I see Adam fly in a tie goin’ off to work, finding new fruits and new places for babies. Eve fly likes to get pretty and put on red lipstick (don’t ask me how she finds the lipstick). The more each buzzed along to that music, the more I could tell each particular personality.

            And I killed each fucking one. Now there’s just the one of them. I’m sure that one’s Eve Fly, buzzin’ round my face, asking why’d I do it, why I’d do her family in like that. That I can understand– a woman’s way with her own dear children– but could she go and understand me? Possibly. Probably not. What a way to go, getting’ sucked up into a tube, getting bashed around up and down in the heat and all that noise, bashed backwards and rightwards until they’re in the compact squish of everything else in there. How long do they live in there for? Are they still alive now?

            It just gets me wondering. Was there really a point, having them been born at all, when it ends in the back of a trash heap? Even if they had kids, you think the kids are gonna take the time to remember? So what’s the point? Anyone gonna remember me– me out here making cabbages and shooting deer, begging Judy to keep rent stable, writing to Ma every couple of months? Getting down to the lake here and then just for a change? Me. They gonna make a trash heap out of me too?

            (Course they did hum along to my music– that was satisfying, sucking them in like that… Judy miserable… they only really were happy eating my food… don’t move in on rich slobs… so it’s a kinda food we make (to make it right?)… I wanted…)

            I’m sorry. These kind of cloudy days just go and make me thoughtful. Not right to ask too many questions.

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