There’s a solitary housefly living in the downstairs toilet.
September fly was concieved on a dog turd down the street, hatched out on a rotting pastie by next door’s bins
and found it’s way through our spare bedroom window last weekend.
Since then, it has patrolled our rooms and corridors on a non-stop reconnaissance mission
and has now taken up residence in the smallest room.
We hate flies. They are nuisance incarnate. Furious black specks scribbling the space around us
with violent abandon. Summer afternoons in the kitchen, bloated bluebottles bolted inside,
breakneck chasing, blasting out bombastic buzzing:
“HEY! THERE’S SHIT TO EAT, HUMANS TO ANNOY AND OTHER FLIES TO FUCK!
VOMIT ON THAT SANDWICH! SUCK THE JUICES UP!”
September fly dosen’t make a sound. Depleted energy reserves keep it in motion. Circling the
light bulb soundlessly, pointlessly. Waiting.
I know that tiny head contains no misery, loneliness or regret, but pity overwhelms me.
I shall call him Charles. The last, fading relic of a vanished bygone era.
Vile still, but deserving pity.
Copyright Tom George 2011
Tom George 