Flies


Flies have invaded my living room. I don’t understand where they’re coming from. I clean and clean the house. I’ve killed dozens with a magazine with The Rock on the cover. He’s splattered with blood, wings, legs, eyes. Still flies; they grow more brazen and difficult to destroy, buzz at me Kamikaze style, veer off at the last second. Land on objects I can’t strike with the magazine: the handle of my sunglasses, a plant’s leaf, the end of my iced coffee straw. They forever haunt me. Flying, dipping, buzzing, landing. To remind me that I’m still here all alone.



Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work is forthcoming in Fiction on the Web, Gargoyle and Bull: Men’s Fiction. When he’s not writing, which is most of the time, he can be found dropping GIFs on posts all over twitter where he tweets @WKoewing and is occasionally tolerable. 

Categories: Fiction

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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