The Maggot

Johnny was a maggot. A fact with which he was becoming increasingly frustrated. I mean, he was fine with being a maggot for a while, but this long? Really? It felt like forever and he was sure that all his maggot brothers and sisters (alongside whom he’d popped out of egg and feasted on rotting corpse), had long ago hardened, reformed, shot out wings and taken off? But here was little Johnny, tirelessly wriggling along the ground, still a maggot.

And so this is where we find ourselves. With Johnny, crawling across the earth, searching for a fresh supply of rotting flesh upon which to feast. Little Johnny, wishing for the continuous pulsing rhythm of his muscles to cease and for the outer segments of his body to first grow still and then encrust to form a temporary tomb from which he will emerge reborn. Proud Johnny, longing to arise anew as a winged beast, ready to fly through the countryside in a ceaseless search of shit and death. Purposeful Johnny, yearning to buzz his way through the world in search of a mate and an opportunity to bear forth his progeny. Yes, Johnny, wanting nothing more than to just play his role in the endless cycle of fly reproduction, amidst the bountiful supply of nature’s excrement and decay.

But the genetic destiny held within this sack of cream-yellow jelly, belied the truth of its situation. Because  far from being in the rural idyll of his evolutionary ancestral heritage, amidst the cowpats and rotting fruity, it was in fact within a used tin of cat food that the egg which bore Johnny would be laid. In a bin. In a kitchen. In a house in Walthamstow - Jennifer’s house.

Poor incredulous Johnny. And so he wriggled on. Expectant. Purposeful. Utterly oblivious.

(Now, just to be clear, I am not truly actually under the illusion that Johnny can really appreciate the contingencies of his existence as a maggot. Nor do I believe that he can conceive of the concept of “fly'' any more than he conceive of the concept “Walthamstow”. No. I’m not oblivious to the fact that any genetic inheritance which is held temporally within the nervous system of a maggot will most likely manifest itself purely as biological instinct. And the residence of this instinct, well, it’s hard to believe that there is a conscious mind within a maggot which acts as receptacle or mirror or chamber for the verbalisation and visualisation of these instincts as thoughts? Finally, let me be clear that I’m not seeking to patronise you, the reader, by implying that you might hold a set of beliefs which I do not. On the contrary, I’m sure that we are both in agreement that the projection of humanistic sensibilities onto a maggot is utter fancy. However, if I’m to tell a story about a maggot, then it is arguably necessary to convey the maggot-experience in a form which enables me to capture a weight of intent, of desire? And if I have any hope of imbuing within you any emergence of emotion for this character, of empathy, then I must assign a believable degree of agency? And so, all this, for lack of real alternative, entails a humanistic description of experience. No?  So, with all that said, for the purposes of this story, let us both continue.)

Johnny crawled up the inside of the bin (all the while assuming that he was propelling himself along a rock or tree trunk), and once more he wondered why his personal advancement was so curtailed. Was he not maggot enough to be a fly? Why was his destiny so thwarted? His rightful role denied? Because if not destined for fly, then what was he? Oh, this interminable interim state of being…

The egg only has purpose in that it becomes maggot? The maggot only purpose in that it becomes chrysalis? The chrysalis only purpose in that it becomes fly?! He crawled ever onward.

This maggot, Johnny, arrived at the opening of the bin, he writhed along its top edge, his body contracting and expanding in advancing waves, and then fell to the floor - like a maggot. He noticed a slight change in light and a subtle change in smell, but simply continued to wriggle in what he assumed was a worthwhile direction.

It was as he ventured forth across the kitchen floor, edging forward toward nothing in particular that Jennifer entered the kitchen. Johnny remained unaware - her presence cast no shadow and the flowery scent of her perfume conveyed a sense of freshness which lacked any interest for him. But conversely, Jennifer was really rather interested in Johnny. Upon seeing a maggot crawling along the slate-effect laminate flooring Jennifer gave a pronounced, but strangely inaudible shriek. Her eyes opened wide, her thighs and buttocks clenched, her hand raised sharply and unconsciously to her open mouth. She ran to the sink, grabbed 2 sheets of kitchen roll, bent down over Johnny, and picked him up between the sheets of double ply super-strong tissue paper (maintaining an expression of speciesist disgust as she did so).

Any awareness that Johnny may or may not have had as to this swift movement and sudden change in environ (imagined or otherwise), swiftly came to an end as Jennifer squeezed her manicured fingernails together and felt a small explosive ‘pop’ as Johnny’s innards expelled themselves into the velvety and highly absorbent kitchen roll.

And so, regrettably (for everyone other than Jennifer), that is the end of Johnny’s story. Sorry if you were hoping for more - so was Johnny. Such is life.

Note - Jennifer did later discover that her bin was unpleasantly full of Johnny’s brothers and sisters - none of which had yet matured into flies (though some had reached the giddy existential heights of pupae). After throwing up a little in her mouth she successfully cleaned the bin and vowed to always rinse her cat food tins out thoroughly before placing them in the recycling bin in future. So a good result overall, I’m sure you’ll agree.