Fruit Flies

Schroeder Barteaux

“A Still Life of Fruit, Grapes and Foliage, with Flies and Butterflies.” Jan Mortel.  Source: ArtUK

“A Still Life of Fruit, Grapes and Foliage, with Flies and Butterflies.” Jan Mortel.
Source:
ArtUK

Amongst the throngs of people, there was a sliver of space at the foot of the hill where no one would stand, for someone had left produce lying on the sidewalk. That by itself would not have forced us, people who had gathered in Duncan Square and who wished to get as close as possible to the organizers, to avoid that area. No, the clearance of that real estate was caused by the hundreds of flies that buzzed around the fruit, maniacally circling it in droves, so many in fact that when they all attached themselves to the produce its true color was no longer visible, and all that could be seen was that swarm of bugs picking and eating its remains. I stood only a few yards from the fruit, trying to focus on the words of the organizers who spoke of justice, who spoke of equality, who spoke of demands, demands that the scourge of white supremacy be eliminated, demands that the police state be abolished, demands for the end of the looting of communities of color. And they spoke with such passion and such authority and such obvious truth that when they finished, all of us cheered and clapped and a man nearby banged on his drum. And with that rise in volume from the crowd those bugs which had only one mission that afternoon – to suck the remaining life from that fruit – feared for a moment, feared enough to leave the produce and fly elsewhere. But then when the applause and the cheering and the banging of the drum died down, they returned to their task, to the pillaging of the produce, and during those moments in that sweltering heat I grew angry wondering how loud the applause must be, how passionate the cries must be, and with how much force the drum must be beaten, such that those flies might leave and never again return to that fruit from which they had already taken so much.

diamond2 -2.png

Schroeder Barteaux is an emerging southern writer who lives with his wife and his gray cat in New Orleans, Louisiana. @S_Barteaux

Previous
Previous

If I Could Just See the Levee from My Backyard…

Next
Next

Two-Cry Minimum