This morning, Mark Lord awoke as a fly. The morning before, he also awoke as a fly. In fact, there had never been a morning when he hadn’t awoken as a fly, and there would never be a morning when he wouldn’t awake as a fly, except for the morning after the day that he would eventually die, because then he wouldn’t be much of anything except for dead.

Mark enjoys being a fly. Buzzing. Darting. Licking windows. Sleeping in rotten wood. The human who owns the house that he lives in leaves enough food scraps in the kitchen to feed Mark for several lifetimes, which isn’t saying much for a fly because he probably won’t make it until next autumn.

Before this house, Mark lived in a different house in another place. He didn’t like that house as much. There was less to do and fewer flies to do it with. He’d cross paths with the same three insects every few hours, and they weren’t what Mark would consider talkative. The human living there seemed not to, well, live there, which meant there weren’t as many flesh particles or condensation droplets on the windows and the walls and the tiles in the bathroom. This made the surfaces less ripe for licking, which was quite unsatisfying for Mark. He would lie in a dark, damp corner of decaying baseboard in the attic, restless, and think about dying. By palm, by book, by swatter, by tissue, by car.

Sometimes, he would imagine his body stretching and morphing, building muscle and tissue and flesh from his fuzz, growing two legs and two arms and a complex system of organs and maybe a bit of hair, too. He would imagine having two hands with which to own a house and being able to read. In his dreams, he would make himself a human. Not that anyone ever knew.

In this house, in this place, with many other flies, Mark thinks less about dying and tries to think less about being human. Mark speaks like the others want him to. Mark is the quintessential fly.

On certain days, Mark even enjoys an evening out—such as tonight.

So I’m licking on this crumb, right, like I’m absolutely dogging down on it, you know. Didn’t even expect to find it, just fell into the bag and went with it, started hunting, and there it was. Big and crusty, practically begging me to come and unfold my tongue and just let ‘er rip. Always the best, the unexpected ones. Always the best.

What? Oh yeah, so I’m licking on the crumb and I see her drop in too, and— swing a left here, yeah. Take those stairs up. We’re almost there —anyway, I see her drop in and I’m thinking to myself, like, you’ve got to be kidding me. Anywhere, she could be anywhere, and she needs to gloss her wings in this bag? In this cavernous bag? With my crumb? You’ve got to be kidding me. Completely took me out of my enjoyment of the thing. Ruined my high—

Ayeee, Douglass! Hop in our swarm, man. You headed to Big Light, too?

Located on the third floor of Mark’s current dwelling, Big Light is not so much a place as it is a condition—a shared delusion that survives mostly because no one wants to admit that it’s a lamp. It flitted into fly consciousness several generations ago (roughly two weeks, give or take) with a rumor of a light left on late into the night and one particularly reckless fellow who lingered near the bulb long enough to feel something like euphoria.

He arrived at the windows the next morning, still light-dazed and twitching with revelation, and told the others what he’d seen. The Big Light, he called it.

Over time, word of the Light spread through the colony, and flies began to gather there. Some call it a club. Others refer to it as a kind of holy site, though it's less like a church and more like a hamster’s grave, a shoebox buried an inch too close to the surface. Unmarked. Sacred by accident.

This is Mark’s first time going; he’s only heard the stories. He likes the way it sounds. Like somewhere a fly could feel like more. Like somewhere he might belong.

Or at least somewhere he might have a good time.

Where was I? Right. Lorraine. So she’s in the bag with me, and she’s all like, “What are you doing here?” And I’m like, “I was here first, bitch,” and then she looks at me like I’m the crazy one, even though I was clearly already hamming it up in that bag with that crumb. Okay, calling her a bitch was probably a lil much. Yeah, I hear you. Flies make mistakes.

I never want to see her again. Anyone know if she’s gonna be there tonight?

Okay, zip around this corner now, and then it’ll be under that door.

Woooof, tight squeeze! Maybe that crumb was a bad idea. Gotta think about my summer bod. Can’t wait to get out of this damn house, man. It’s nice and all—these people leave shit everywhere to eat, right, plenty of jobs, plenty of spills—but it’s not real, you know? Not like summer. The sun bouncing off a sweaty beer can, chillin’ on the rim. That’s when I feel alive, man. Like I’m me. Not just some winged thing bouncing off windows.

Some days are easier than others for Mark. Some days he doesn’t have to try very hard to shut out the thoughts.

Some days they get the best of him.

Yo, you ever dream about walking? Heel-to-toe? I can feel them sometimes, the legs. Isn’t that weird? Maybe I was someone else once. Someone who sat in the chair, not on the rim of the can. Ha. I dunno. Prolly just the pesticides messing with my brain. Anyway—you know what I’m saying, dude. And the fruit. Watermelon. I’m salivating. Practically levitating. Oh, wait, I am! Ah, never gets old. Right up there, you see it? Bright as the sun. Y’all heard from Lorraine? Figures. Alright, let's head in.

The Big Light, in practice, is unremarkable. It’s one of those vaguely breast-like fixtures that clings to the ceiling, with a frosted glass dome and a fluorescent bulb. It belongs, technically, to a seventeen-year-old girl who also owns the room beneath it. She rarely looks up.

Place is bumping. I like that. Always like a crowd. Warm, humming just right. You ever think about what the humans do? Like, a real party?

Sorry. Got lost in the moment. Not trying to kill the vibe. Look, there’s a stash of High Noons out on the desk. Grapefruit, pineapple…Reminds me of the frat days. Remember those? Wait. Waiiiiit, did I go to college? Nah. Right? Hahaha. That’s crazy. That’s wild. I must’ve made that up. Brain’s fuzzy lately. Prolly from the screen cleaner fumes. Haha. Alright, 3 drops each? I’ll buzz right back. Grapefruit for everyone.

It’s easier for Mark to get a grip when he’s around others. And when he’s sober. When he drinks alone, that’s when the problems start.

Oo, books. Wonder what the lady of the house is reading. Gluggluggluglug pretty decent collection. No idea what any of that says. Ha. Literacy rate’s in the gutter. HazzZahaZzzZZZzha. I crack myself up. Maybe I should do stand-up. Stand up. Would if I could, right? Ha. Would if I could. Bzz.

Lady doesn’t even know what she’s got. This desk? Stacked. She’s barely here, not here now. Has no idea what she’s got. Even left a cherry out. Half-eaten. That’s straight up wasteful. Be a shame to leave it. Too plump, ripe. Juice ‘as gotta be incredible.

Mmf. Sweet. Glug. Little more time at the table. MmmfffglugGlug.

Fuck. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Lady. ZzzzzZZZZzz.

One sip too many. Fuuuuck.

She sees me. She sees me. Zzzzzzzz.

Wonder what I look like. Blur. Blackness. Nothing. Wings. Pest. Don’t wanna dodge. Wanna see her. Wanna ask what she sees.

ZzzzzzzZZZZZzZZZ.

Kill me, kill yourself.

Not too different from me.

Zz. Mercy. Silence. She’s gone. BZZzZZZZBbZZZZZZZZZzzzzzZZzZz.

Lick their crumbs, sip their drinks, wash their windows, not even there. I got something here. Name. Friend. Things. Have it all. Know what I have. Know what I’m missing. Know what she knows, know what she doesn’t.

Know—

SMACK.

This morning, Mark Lord awoke as a fly. The morning before, he also awoke as a fly. In fact, there had never been a morning when he hadn’t awoken as a fly, except for the morning after the night that he died, because then he wasn’t much of anything except for dead.