The Flies of Elizabeth

This story takes place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. A town called Crowsville. Rarely sunny, quiet, usually cold, and almost always covered in a cloud of mist. The buildings are solid brick and Victorian, with the downtown area akin to one large townhome, that is, most of the buildings are so close together they might as well be one large structure. Perhaps the most important, defining quality of this small town is that the citizens are perpetually in Halloween spirit. Costume parties happen every weekend. Pumpkins are commonly grown, and most people have jack-o-lanterns on their porch or doorstep. “Skello’s Pumpkins for the Living and Dead” is the local pumpkin patch and provides all the pumpkins at a commercial level. They also host the semi-annual Scare Fest, a large festival dedicated to scaring off evil spirits in October (Halloween) and celebrating the art of communication with the dead in summer (Summerween). You’ll also find pumpkins in the backyards of those who have gardens, their vines wrapped and tangled along the fences.

People like Crowsville. Most of them are born here, and hardly anyone moves to this place. Partly because no one knows about it, but partly because it’s a special place. And anytime you have something special, most people think it’s either weird or crazy. Crowsville happens to be all three. Those that do move here have deliberately chosen to give up a life of ‘normal,’ like nonstick cookware and “Live Love Laugh” decor for cauldrons and antique straw brooms. These people are either weird or crazy. Sometimes special. Our main character, Elizabeth, is all three.

Elizabeth is a woman of average height. She has hair that looks black, but in the sun it appears brown-red. Her eyes are brown, and she often wears overalls with green rain boots.

Elizabeth moved here some years ago. She left everything behind and signed a lease for a small, loft-style studio apartment located in the historic downtown. The front door is on a semi-busy commercial street. Her door opens directly to a staircase that goes up. There's a small kitchen, a separate bathroom, and three large windows overlooking the front street. The bathroom has white tile with yellow staining, a stand-alone tub, and a large sink with an ashtray on the counter. It isn’t hers. It is either the landlords or the previous tenants. The kitchen and main room share hardwood floors. She sleeps on a mattress directly on the ground. No couch or TV. Art supplies clutter the room opposite her bed. She lives with Felix, her black cat with green eyes, who shares the bed.

She works at the local diner down the road, serving tables for a quick buck. In her off time she paints. She creates depictions of reptiles, usually alligators and crocodiles, eating fruit, like grapes and blackberries. Not something you usually see in the real world. She likes this because these creatures are seen as mindless meat-eaters, but she thinks that underneath those hard shells are secret mammals who just want to be loved and seen, and enjoy fruit.

As of recently, however, Liz hasn’t painted. Life is busy. With work and housekeeping, taking care of Felix, fixing her old 1980 pickup so she can stop taking the bus, taking so much of her time she forgets to live her life and do the one thing that any of us desire to do: create.

Liz wakes up at 7. Her alarm is blasting its typical raven “GRONK GRONK” noises. She finds it rather soothing. She gets up and makes her bed, carries herself to brush her teeth (half asleep), puts on clothes, and heads down the street for the morning shift.

The diner is a small place with wooden furniture and red upholstery, owned by Mrs. Fora, who once again is not here today because she is somewhere in the American southeast where the weather is nice, people live in their swimsuits with a perpetual tan, and have so much free time they don’t know what else to do but party. The lights flicker a bit once she flips the switch, then come on strong and bright. The coffee pots are clean until she pushes “brew,” and four pots of coffee are all made at once in the commercial coffee system, designed for diners to keep up with demand. One brew typically lasts the whole day. The morning cook, Jeff, walks in.

“Good morning, Liz,” he says without eye contact and goes straight to turn on the griddles.

“Morning, Jeff.” She pours two cups, one with creamer and the other straight black, which she places on the small window between the counter and the kitchen. In the small window, there is a warming lamp to keep food warm, and a railing where tickets can be placed. Both for orders to be cooked and orders to be served. Inside the kitchen are two griddles, four waffle irons, and two deep fryers. Other than that, there's a small janitor closet with a floor sink and several random chemicals and buckets.

Three customers come within thirty minutes and order coffee, sausage, and eggs. Same people every day. Same orders. Same staff. Same everything. The morning shift used to drag on, but now the days blur together, and she’s finished with her shift before she knows it. And like clockwork, every day, her best friend Larry comes in as she punches her time card clocking out. He sits down and waves at her. Julia, the closing waitress, comes in to take over. As well as Gerald, the closing cook.

“Have a good evening, Liz,” Jeff says as he leaves.

Liz goes over to sit with Larry. He is a tall man with dark hair and dark eyes. His face is perfectly proportionate without a single blemish. He has a pumpkin tattoo.

“So, how’d it go today?” He asks.

“Same as every day.” She sighs. “I’m not sure… maybe I need something new.”

“New? You need something old.”

“Not again with this, Larry.”

“Hey, I am going to say it every day and every time I see you. You are talented, Liz. Why don’t you do it anymore?”

“You know why. I’m too busy. I need to make money and provide for Felix.”

“He’s a cat. What about providing for your soul?”

“Want any food?” Julia butts in.

“No, thank you.”

“Well, you know the boss's rules. If you aren’t ordering, you aren’t staying. We need the seating.”

They do not, in fact, need the seating. They never have a full house.

“I’ll get some eggs.” Says Larry

“Weird.” Says Julia. She tells Gerald and is overheard saying, “She’s so strange.”

There is a fly at Liz’s table.

“Liz, paint.”

She leaves the diner. Her insides feel rotten because she knows he is right. She can paint well, and before she moved to Crowsville, she sold her paintings to collectors. This was how she paid her bills. She came to Crowsville for a fresh start.

She walks home. Inside her pocket was a large skeleton-style brass key, the key to her front door. The old wooden door creaks open. The staircase creaks louder.

She sighs, “Hi, Felix.” Scratching his purring head while he rubs her legs. She looks around the room. Old paint bottles with dried tips, blank canvases, and ruined brushes. Not a drop of inspiration. The place felt like someone spilled gray paint. She eats a meal in silence. Then she reads her book, and deep into the words her eyes became heavy. She no longer knew what she was reading, until…

“GRONK GRONK!” Her alarm blares.

This is how Elizabeth lives, day in and day out. She’s been living like this for at least a year. Maybe two. It's hard to know because all the days blur together. She does not measure time by days and dates, but by which book she is reading, and what chapter she is in.

One day, Larry walks her home. They go inside together. He sits with her while she sobs. He tells her to paint. She’s sad because she has no other friends, and he won’t stop talking about painting. Not only did she not have friends, but most people think of her as “the weird waitress.” She has bizarre manners. Fidgets and spasms.

This Larry guy, not much is known about him. He just started showing up to the diner. He became a regular, then a friend. He is the only one who has been kind to Liz.

Days went and gone.

Elizabeth has a nightmare; she wakes up sweating but instantly forgets what she was dreaming about because a dark figure stands over her. She wants to scream but turns on the light. It's Larry. He’s wet, but not with water. He’s covered in blood and has flies around him. They are eating away at his skin. They pull large chunks of flesh out of his face. One fly sits on his eyeball, unmoving.

“Liz… Paint… Please.” He gasped, blood spurting from his mouth.

She tries to push him back, but he places a brush in her open palm. He collapses. The door has a large lock on it. Not one she put there. The flies multiply and begin to feast on his body while he lies there, gasping. Blood pours across the floor. This must be a bad dream. She pinches herself, but feels it, and it hurts.

“Larry, stop. This isn’t funny!” She cries

Felix crawls from under the bed. He plucks Larry's eyeball out.

She sits and cries as flies eat every piece of Larry. They eat him away. Until he is gone. Nothing but blood and clothes remain. She becomes hollow. She falls asleep crying.

She wakes up to Felix licking her face. The clothes are gone. The lock is gone. No blood, no Larry, regular gray apartment. One of the blank canvases across the room stares at her. Today is her day off. She walks over to the canvas and picks up a brush. It feels like she is standing at the top of a cliff. She makes one simple stroke with yellow paint.

“It’s all wrong.” She instantly thinks.

A fly lands on the canvas.

“You’re not a painter,” says a voice coming from the fly.

“Faker,” says another on the wall.

“No one will like this.”

“They’ll laugh at you.”

“HA HA HA!”

The flies come through the vents and window by the twos, each with a remark to make about how awful her art is.

There is a knock at the door.

She opens, and there stands Larry, fine, unharmed. He held new paint bottles and unused brushes still in plastic wrap. A big bow tied around the supplies.

“Can I come in?” He breaks the silence while she stares, not knowing what to say.

She wants to slam the door on him. She wants to hide her art so he won’t see it. But instead, she lets him in.

“It’s amazing!” The flies are gone. “I’ll just leave these with you and won’t bother you.”

“Wait,” She says, “Will you stay?”

“Yes. Always.” He sits on her bed to watch her paint. The hours go by as she makes mistake on top of mistake. Until she finally decides that what she has is close enough to good she can take a break.

He thought the hours went by as she made one precise decision after another, creating one of the most beautiful paintings he has ever seen. He expressed this to her.

“I had a dream. You told me to paint.” She replies.

“Well, I do tell you to paint. Every day.”

A fly lands on his shoulder.

“But I think you should stop.” It says.

The room goes gray. Only her art has color. She faces Larry, he has several flies on his face, all pulling out meat to reveal jawbone.

“You think THAT is art?”

“You think you did something here?”

“You disgust me.”

“Take an extra shift at the diner.”

“Rent is coming up. You can’t afford to be creative!”

She plugs her ears but still hears the voices. She hears a thud as Larry’s body hits the ground. She goes to her door, but there is a lock. It's thick, black steel, and heavy. She checks the windows and they’re locked too. The room is dark even though the sun beams through. Felix meows, then yells and hisses.

Larry looked up

“...F i n i s h…” He croaks.

She approaches the easel. She wields the brush as a massive swarm of flies fills the room.

She doesn't stop. She doesn’t listen. The day rolls by as sun beams climb the wall, then disappear, and moonlight enters the window. The flies thin out. She takes a step back and, with proud confidence, declares that although her painting is not perfect, it’s good.

“It’s incredible.” Said Larry.

“I couldn’t do it without you.” She says.

They kiss.

At least, she thinks they do.

Later, her art is sold to a collector. She quits the diner. And Larry… Not much is known about Larry because, well, he doesn't exist. He never did. And Elizabeth... She doesn’t have many friends, her best friend is imaginary. People think she’s weird. She’s often seen talking to herself, usually saying she doesn’t want to paint. But she does want to paint. Only the flies tell her not to. They appear every time she tries, always saying the same things. And Larry, who encourages her, fights for her, and inspires her, dies. Every time. But when she paints, he comes back.

Elizabeth and Larry,

And the flies.

Until she creates–

Elizabeth and her doubts,

until she stops listening.

The End.