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The Fly

I had never had anything like this before. One morning I just woke up with a chronic buzzing in my head, as if a fly were trapped between my ears. I reacted with minimal hysteria until I developed visual disturbances as well, in the form of stray shadows. “What do you think it is?” I asked pretty much everyone, even the girl with flaxen hair. She said she still had back-to-school shopping to do. And so I called the doctor’s office, something I maybe should have done earlier. An automated answering system politely put me on hold. By now my symptoms included suicidal thoughts and a classic bull’s-eye rash. At least I got to listen through the buzzing to two of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons (“Spring” and “Summer”) before I was disconnected. I haven’t bothered to call back. I haven’t decided whether I will. The fly has begun to tell me things about myself that I don’t necessarily want anyone else to hear.



H o w i e   G o o d

Universal Themes
in Literature

prose poems

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