A Short Story with a Surrealist Slant

I carry them in a little film canister. The same sort of film canister that my contemporaries keep their weed in. That little film canister that looks like a pill bottle. You know the one I mean.

I carry them with me to class. And only to class. My little dead flies. Charlie. Freddy. Marty. Chrysanthemum. My little film canister full of dead flies. I painted it with gold and covered it with gold glitter. And then I covered it with mod podge so it wouldn’t flake.

Every morning I put my film canister full of dead flies dead the front pocket of my back pack. Every day after class I take them out again. And I put them on my desk. And I go smoke a cigarette. I never open my film canister of dead flies. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t. The mod podge has sealed it shut. But I know they’re in there.

Charlie. Freddy. Marty. Chrysanthemum.

My little dead flies who live in their gilded film canister. They never go anywhere without me that isn’t class. I value their education and don’t want to subject them to my vices. I put them in my desk drawer when I drink and don’t take them with me when I smoke. My poor dead flies. They deserve better.

Charlie. Freddy. Marty. Chrysanthemum. They deserve better than a college nobody with bad hair and a history of people telling me I will save the world. My poor dead flies.

Charlie. Freddy. Marty. Chrysanthemum.