Flash Fiction: The Fly

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The blinding reality of my situation is perpetual. A thousand diffuse moments scattered like flashbulb crystals in a dizzying array. Every sound is the moment of heat death at the end of the universe. No light; all light. Vibrations at the end of my blackened limbs.

I am hungry

The perpetual hum of my motors pulls me from moment to moment. No stopping; never stop. Stop is death. The loudness indicates food. The food’s transdimensional across the vectors that indicate sense. A thousand hands come to crush me; each one a broken escher rain drop about to slam. I am quick.

Cilia all around and my body will not linger. I cannot tell this object from any other object. I only know that it feels like me. It is coarse and horizonless and the colors are glaring and green and white and yellow and blue. I cannot see my own eyes, bulbous.

I announce my mating call through the timeless expanse. The loud motor of my stomach produces an earth shaking rattle. I fly always up. My wings never move. rest is death. I am the constant enemy. And my stream never moves towards or away anyone thing.

A smell.

It is deep and punctures my proboscis. It fills me with the scent I imagine peace feels like. The mosaic indicates life. My life. My food. I will mate. I will eat. I will die. There is no loneliness. My mind is the distance between a synapse.

The world is constant and I am always moving. And I land again. My mosaic is single, my heart my mind and thoughts uncoil as I taste the grains of salt on the sandwich left out. The thousand hands of death come again .

Light fractures and my wing torn. I fly staggering. A loud thwap and my encroaching demise. Why was I born into chaos?

I fly to my death, well short of my allotted month. I rest on lacquer smooth red wood, and let the sands of time fall over me, as I welcome the peace of stillness and rest.

The rest comes easy, after that.

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