write this
emmer effer
a pretend genius broadsuction
some days are better than none
Sayuri Yamada
Flies
Melody is a lady, coming here to have a dinner party with her friends, and give birth. The food on the faded green lino floor is nothing but skeleton, and old. She prefers big juicy ones. So do all her elegant friends. But this is a good occasion anyway. One doesn’t encounter whole carcasses so often.
The good thing about the meat of this old human on the floor is almost liquidised due to the summer heat. It is a miracle that it hasn’t been found by other ladies before. Probably it is because of the high altitude. The smell of the food miraculously drizzled down to her from the crack of the blue glass pane. When Melody followed it, she felt a little dizzy flying in this height. Her friends who followed her also looked a little tired despite the feast.
Anyway, they are here to eat, and give birth for the next generation.
The food is lying by a scruffy single bed. Its four limbs are here and there as if it was frozen while it was dancing to funny music. Nobody is touching the top of its head. The pink scalp, so tightly stretched across the skull, is still intact. Not yet liquidised. The ladies prefer soft juicy flesh.
A noisy machine with humans inside whooshes just outside of the window they flew through. It is called an air taxi. Her mother told her when she was still a maggot. ‘Be careful with those new taxis. They could kill you in the air.’ Her second best friend, Shelly, was squashed to the front window of it. It was a sight she can never forget even if she wants to.
‘This human must’ve died of hunger. Look at this. No meat. Oh, there must be some under there,’ Dianna goes under its grey shirt through a hole just above the belt. The flesh is usually most juicy there. She and other ladies follow suit. Yes, it is all liquidised and easy to sup.
‘How many eggs are you going to lay today, Melody?’ Susie asks her.
‘Five hundred and sixty-two,’ she answers, sipping the flesh daintily. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh, I can’t do that many. Only three hundred and eighty- four. You see, I’m getting old,’ Susie looks at her with luminous big eyes.
‘Don’t say like that. It’s not only you. We’re all getting old together,’ she tries to comfort her best friend.
‘Yes I know, but. .’ she momentarily stops supping.
Melody goes right next to her distressed friend and hugs her gently.
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Sayuri Yamada studies Creative and Critical Writing in postgraduate course at The University of Winchester, England.
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