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.