culling

The afternoon sun knew no mercy that day and my young mind began to wander. I peered out of the sliding glass doors to the fruit trees that stood in the backyard. Each silently imposed themselves upon the surrounding landscape like ancient pillars that once held the priceless works of artists whose names, much like their work, lay shattered and strewn about upon the floor. I looked away but something beckoned my eyes back to them with reverence saved for the written words of a bible verse.

I opened the door and was met by gust of warm, dry air that caused an uneasy shiver to run down my back. I took a deep breath and headed into the yard. As each foot met the concrete floor of the patio, they jerked back in primal spasms until childhood curiosity overwhelmed the feeling of searing pain. One after another, my steps led me from the burning stone to the forgiving coolness of grass. As I approached closer to the trees I began to feel the soft flesh of the overripe plums give way under my feet. It was then that I began to hear a low monotonous sound that began to drown out the static hum of the overhead power lines.

I was puzzled at first but as I looked down I witnessed the glutinous feast of the flies. They nervously darted and twitched among smashed and liquefied fruits in frightening numbers. It was impossible to distinguish the flies from the ground I was walking upon. Maggots squirmed beneath my toes as the flies rubbed their little arms together as if preparing themselves for a massive undertaking.

My stomach grew sick at the sight and my mind once again began to wander. Without thinking, I returned to the house and entered the kitchen. I opened a cupboard and returned holding a flyswatter. My feet retraced my steps until I was once again an observer to their orgiastic delights. It felt like something had changed within me each time I lifted the swatter above my head and brought it down upon the closest patch of writhing bodies. Waves of flies radiated out from the location of the strikes and all that was left were twitching legs and oozing fruit. I began to feel satisfaction in this purification until waves of flies started to reclaim the ground they had paid for dearly.

Again and again, I brought my swatter down upon their heads with a righteous zeal I have never felt since, but each time it seemed as though for each pair of wings I silenced, the buzzing became louder. I beat upon their mounds of filth until I could no longer lift my arm. Pools of juices began to collect where the impression of the swatter made its mark upon the grass and the flies flocked to it. They gave no respect as they gorged themselves upon the same putrid liquids that their dead floated lifelessly within and paid no heed to those who laid upon their backs, pathetically moving their legs to no avail.

I realized that, much like them, my body lay defeated and stuck within the sticky mess all the while the drone became louder in my ears. I tried to block it out but I began to feel their legs crawl upon me and their song turned to words whispered into my ears. Each fly had a different beautiful lie for me. I laid powerless until a scream rang from my mouth to stop their horrible little voices. My parents ran to my side and took me back into the house where I laid for the rest of the day.

Wearily, I made my way to the bathroom where I began to run a bath. I laid within the tub until the water rose to my lips and I began to think of my time beneath the boughs of the fruit trees. I thought of a lesson I had learned but there seemed to be none. This was no story with a moral or a happy ending. The closest tale I could remember of was about the Archangel Michael who found victory in the face of the Lord among flies, and yet, here I had found defeat. I closed my eyes and sank into the water and held my breath. Only when I gasped for air, did I realize, not the lesson I had learned, but what I had just lost.