fun story: Mutilation by Patrick Roscoe

[iGuest 3]

Flies grow drowsy and drunk in Tanzanian sun, bumble against the mesh-screened window, burst with the promise of blood. Beside the sill, a small boy kneels on the floor of red tiles polished once a week by the silent houseboy; a scent of wax lingers like an eternal reprimand in the air. With a pin pinched between thumb and finger, the child contemplates the flies, discerns which is the fattest or biggest or most lazy. His left hand holds the chosen one in place and his right hand guides the pin into its body. Time holds its breath while the insect's thin hard encasing is being penetrated, then exhales in relief as the silver sliver eases into inner softness. The wings of the fly beat and buzz as red liquid drools upon the window ledge, glues its body there. With one finger, the boy paints lines and shapes upon his blank anonymous arm. He can draw numbers, letters of the alphabet, or more elusive symbols. Recently, he has learned to spell his name. ...
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