Short Story – Fly Soup

October 26, 2015

Lying belly up in the steaming cauldron, Steve already began to feel his legs making their final twitches, those uncontrollable spasms that all life seems to make when its luck runs out.  Steve had witnessed this muscle spasm before from a deer after being hit by a car.  Although he had the privilege of feasting on it yesterday, he thought it somewhat ironic that the poor run of luck the deer found itself in, of which Steve had gladly taken advantage of at the time, was now, in a cruel twist of fate, his own poor luck.  Thinking back along his prosperous life, he could recall many times he had danced with death, ranging from dodging cars along route 11 to avoiding the large whips that workers would make of their hand towels at Crozet Hall.  Now, at 20 days young, it seemed he would finally fall victim to a delicious disaster.  Steve, the fly, smelling the tasty odors of cheese and broccoli soup, had landed too close in order to partake of a sip, and the steam, dousing his wings, caused him to fall into this vat of death.

Alas, the long rough hair on his back had already singed off and as he let out a faint scream, his wings also began to melt into the cauldron.  Now, all he wished was that he could tell Chuck, Sue, and Charlie, the other flies who made their home on the filth of Crozet tables, to beware the soup.  He had been foolish, and now, as the top of the cauldron opened, he could see a hand, and a ladle, which scooped in, picking him up, along with some of the steaming soup and deposited him in a white bowl.  As Steve took his final breaths, he realized, that much like the deer he had feasted on, he was to be feasted on.  Steve was just a number now, a statistic of insect parts per million from Crozet Hall, a number that far exceeded the FDA’s ever so stringent regulations for safe, clean, and edible food.

 

– Dedicating this short story to all my VMI peeps…

You Might Also Like

No Comments

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: