PodCastle

* Author : Shaoni C. White
* Narrator : Abra Staffin-Wiebe
* Host : Summer Fletcher
* Audio Producer : Peter Adrian Behravesh
*
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PodCastle 656: What My Flies Keep for Me is a PodCastle original.


Content Warning: Insects, mild gore, and death.


Rated R.
What My Flies Keep For Me
By Shaoni C. White
There’s a dead body on the floor. This is a bad thing. I’m having trouble recalling why that’s the case, but I’m sure it’ll come back to me soon. I fastidiously clean the blade of the knife on the shirt that the body is wearing, because the knife is my brother’s and it’s rude to return things you’ve borrowed in poor condition. That’s what the flies resting on the curve of my ear are telling me. They’re very helpful, although I dearly miss their compatriots. The world is jagged and confusing without them. I look around and see dozens of things that don’t seem quite right, and I can recall the shape of the insect voices that ordinarily remind me why they’re wrong, but I can’t summon up the words they would use to explain it.
Unsure where to put the knife, I carry it loosely in my hand as I step carefully over the puddled blood. “Cleanliness is essential,” hums a fly as it takes off and orbits my head. “It’s important to keep shared living spaces clean and tidy so as not to inconvenience the people you live with.”
Another fly agrees. “It’s bad to inconvenience people.”
“Can you help me figure out what to do next?” I ask, but the flies just hum their murmured endorsements of cleanliness and consideration. “Should I clean up the mess?”
“Yes,” buzzes one.
But another says, “No! You should inform someone that you’ve made an error! You must take responsibility for your actions!”
Unrest reigns briefly among the flies as they argue with each other. Soon, though, they all concede that taking responsibility by telling someone what I did is a higher priority than cleanliness.
In accordance with their decision, I leave the room and make my way down the hall. My brother’s door is ajar. He’s asleep. I’m surprised that he managed to sleep through the commotion, but I shouldn’t be; he’s been known to sleep through hurricanes. I shake him. He jerks awake. He groans, then looks at me, then groans louder and squeezes his eyes shut. “Oh god. What do you want. It’s two in the morning.”
“It’s four in the morning, actually.”
A fly buzzes angrily. “You shouldn’t correct people needlessly simply to prove that you’re right.”
“Sorry,” I say. “That was rude. And I’m sorry for waking you up. But I need your help.”
He props himself up and squints at me. “Fine, what’s . . .” He trails off. “Where are your flies?”
“They’re gone. I only have a few left.”
“What happened?”
“The Ordovan boys stole them. Two of them, they came in through the window and caught them in a net. I tried to get them back, but I failed. One of them escaped. I killed the other one.” He stares at me. I hold out the knife. “I cleaned off the blood.”
“. . . thanks,” he says, voice strangled. “Uh. The flies you have left. What are they telling you?”
“Cleanliness is important and I shouldn’t inconvenience people and I should take responsibility for my actions.”
“Cool. Cool. Are any of them saying anything about, uh, murder?”
I blink. I’m not entirely sure what the word “murder” means, although it feels familiar.
He winces. “Okay. Gotcha.