This story is a submission for Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. It was prompted by the photo below. Thank you Al.
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I’m Mandy Fly, Me
Two flies chew the fat at their second favourite watering-hole, the Nag’s Head.
“Let’s buzz off down the other end Sam.”
“You said it stinks so bad there, it makes you retch.”
“Yeah, I love it.”
“It’s quieter for chatting here, Eric.”
“Spill the beans. Then gobble ‘em back up and tell me all about it.”
“It’s Mandy. I asked her round. Did a lovely spread, rotten pork, over-ripe bananas…“
“She hates hot food.”
“No, did you get the music right? Doesn’t she like the Chili Peppers?”
“She fancies the bass player. I put romantic music on.”
“Gnat King Cole.”
“Sorry, I was back on the food. They say dead mouse is an aphrodisiac.”
“We ate. I put on the music, snuggled up and suggested it was time for us to raise larvae in some damp manure.”
“Exactly. But Mandy said she’s not ready, told me to stay away or she’d report me for harassment.”
“You ain’t scared of the cops!”
“Her dad’s a bluebottle … with contacts in SWAT.”
“So where’s Mandy now?”
“Hanging around a bar.”
“A pickup joint?”
“No, that bar at the bottom of a laptop.”
“Says she needs space.”
Now the story’s out of the way, I apologise to anyone who might have read it all the way through. In my defence I constructed it in a hurry, after a weekend of back-breaking DIY. As I’d be hopeless at producing purple prose, I aimed at a genre that I think might properly be called puerile prose.
If you’re wondering why the comma in the title has been wrongly placed, it’s deliberate. Some time ago I started trying to write stories inspired by song titles. I’ve tweaked this 10cc number so that I could add one more story to the list.
Finally, I know flies couldn’t literally chew fat, as they don’t have teeth. It’s just an expression, and the truth about how they eat is disgusting,