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.

An Apocalyptic

The locust of dawn watches its prey
It sits in the fields of wheat
Grain rising with the golden dawn
Of revelation

The preacher sees the insect, clicking
Its angry chitinous legs
In preparation
The sound that howls like the
Cicada’s death cry
Across the endless plain of gold
Braided fibonacci
In circles, blonde french
Girls singing ring around the rosey

a Black chalcedony spark in the night
And the locust watches its prey
Its brothers sit on high, ready to harvest
Their blood yield.
Feast on the ripe earth’s grain
Claw into the flesh-y soil, and feel the dry
Bloodless land yield subserviently to its mass

The preacher knows the failure of inevitability
From the pulpit
Crying in tongues to Hecate, Hades,
And the pagan Hel
To escape the mass of destruction to which he cannot help
But witness

He prays for the hail of the almighty
The sun to blot out the sky
In ringed shadow
But not the locust
Not the prosaic monster

The flood of desecration opens its loud
Cacophonous wings
The capricious feeding begins
The crunch of bread
The failure of harvest
And the slow death

Of everything, under the threaded wings
Of Destiny



Dream Logic

Dream logic is uncannily appealing to me.

The night, a mountain, stars of literal diamond rolling up and down the length of something that looks between a river, and a field; the time is gelid, limpid, and pellucid. A shade of green that you don’t associate with air; the textures are all wrong.

You see the light at the end of the navy darkness across the way, and it calls to you. The swaying water takes on the quality of grass, and light fluctuates lux in the in-between.

Figures of egg and sveglia and pain collide on the edges of your periphery. A swooping eagle wings outspread watches you from afar. It has legs of a baby, and its eyes see beyond.

The night air swirls around you and the moon calls its demon red into the place between those two thoughts as wide as ginnungagap. Creatures lurk in those dark shadows with eyes the color of blood.

The eagle is inconsistent in its devotion. Its legs become familiar and a Raven joins its flight, judging it’s love for logic. The wind around them is just the sound of hope.

Three men watch them from below, in a wilderness of swirling darkness. But they are lit by rubies, sapphires, garnets, and guilt. The guilt is flame incarnate, burnished orange and regretful mauve play off their faces.

They know the eagle is a herald of order. But the Raven, well, that’s something else.

The Raven is the familiar that whispers in your ears about the seductive truths of beyond. It’s the subtle curvature of the earth that you seem to fall into from the horizon line. It sings a song of savory sorrow; but its song’s sweet sultriness is too much to bear.

Below the Raven, the men argue about god, life, and violence. They each assume their position is the correct one. They are men of learning, the turbans that sprout on their heads grow successively with the mounting arguments. Their rhetoric builds escher stair ways from the soft-silk and muslin of their turbans.

Suddenly, a loud bang. The smell of patchouli ruins the effect. Then the smell of sulfur.

Brimstone leads the men into a cavern of gravity-less meanderings. They continue arguing, each walking past the other through lopsided right angles. They don’t know what they know to be true; and their too smart to acknowledge what they feel to be right.

The eagle perches silently on the top stage left, just under the lights.

–Where are we?

–Who cares…

–It’s imperative that we figure out where we are

–Why can’t we just walk, and let it take us

–Your metaphors are too on the nose

–I’m not in control here.

–Control is an illusion

–There are plenty of illusions, but control is not one.

–Control is the ultimate illusion; it preys on the belief that we hold the wheels of destiny. We are ever a passenger.

Sprouting blossoms of crystal fall out of the person’s mouth. The indeterminate sex of his existence is no crime. The Raven’s eye is a black hole. Dali doesn’t know how he ended up in some mad modernist raving about nothing, and promptly leaves the scene

–Great, now I’ve included Dali, as if I wasn’t being obvious enough.

–I could have done Bunuel, I guess.

And then, a rumbling

The world becomes a singular point on the horizon. The Eagle Bursts into Flame, the Raven screams at the light, and all of the insignificance is pulled into focus.

Just as the dream is about to get good.

I wake up.

And there is nothing more disappointing than that.