John was a fly. He was only a young fly. He still hadn´t worked out what was truly up, and what was truly down. Some older, very religious flies insisted such an understanding was impossible. Some even said that to say the ground was below the sky was heresy. But all of that mattered little now, because John was stuck in a spider´s web.
Struggle as he may, John could not get free. Tug to the right and an extremely loud and miserble voice would groan “you cannot escape, you don´t have permit 123 point 4”. Tug to the left and that same bored, hungry voice would groan “subsection four of bylaw 89ten prohibits escape by struggle to the left”. Tug up (or down, or whatever you might like to call it) and John would hear “the law is the law, little fly, I´m just doing my job. Even thinking about escaping is illegal!” Tug up, tug down; tug in, tug out – it made no difference: the same deafening, echoing voice insisted he would not be allowed to escape – which seemed odd to John, because he felt he couldn´t, even if he was allowed to.
And so John began to cry soft little fly tears. “I will never grow old. I will never live to dance in a swarm, or feast on cow dung in winter. I will never live to land, repeatedly, on meditators´ noses, or buzz with the girls in sping!” Down, down, down the threads of the spider´s web rolled John´s fly tears. Down the magnificently spun, straight yet flexible, metalically strong threads they rolled – until, until... they touched the cheek of another fly – a rather attractive young girl fly, as it happens – a shy and dicreet and exceptionally well-mannered girl fly named Fatima who had been fully informed of her rights, and complaint proceedures, and even offered a pro bono defence lawyer – but given up hope, having been informed by the spider-in-charge that thousands of thousands of flies had applied for legal assistance, but that actually legal assistance was illegal, and anyway, he´d eaten them all.
John´s soft fly tear touched Fatima´s soft cheek tenderly, which was such a surprise to Fatima that although she knew not from whence that fly tear had come, and although until then she had been somewhat atheistic, she called out “Allah be praised” - and soft tears of her own gushed from her delicate eyes – tears of joy that skidded off, bumpily, one after another, along another magnificent, straight yet flexible, metalically strong thread – until, yes – they met the cheek of yet another young fly caught hopelessly in the spider web of legality.
Drip, drip, drip went Fatima´s tears, like kisses on Frodo´s cheek. Frodo wasn´t actually that little fly´s birth name, but he had adopted it after seeing The Lord of the Rings. “If Frodo can beat a whole army of Orcs – then what´s not possible?” he had declared boldly to his fly parents. “I shall carry that Hobbit´s name proudly as my own!” he had asserted – and his parents had succumbed to the passion of his youthful enthusiasm.
And so it was that Frodo also sobbed with relief. “The Gods are with us!” he yelled in his tiny fly voice, which no one heard. But no matter! He too cried tears of joy, which slid away and kissed another fly cheek, eliciting further little fly tears, which slid away along another magnificent metallic thread. And so on. And so on...
And so it was that tear by tear, and cheek by cheek, and kiss by kiss – all of the little flies in the spider´s web were united in an illegal courage, in an unauthorized hope, in an uncontrollable happiness - and in defiance of their destiny as a bored, old spider´s supper.
Which is when the unexpected happended. Call it a miracle if you will. Call it what you will. What´s in a name anyway?
As if by divine grace, or some hitherto undiscoverd chemical capacity of fly biology – the combined joy of so many little flies released such enormous amouts of DmX42 into the air that the latent Oliochloropotsimine common in fly tears crystalized to create a fierce spider web corosive acid – melting the magnificent, metalic spider threads, and setting all of the little flies free.
“Excuse me, but that is not allowed” the dull headed, but by now rather peckish giant spider called out after them as they all buzzed off. “Fuck you!” they shouted back, joyfully – feeling blessed - as if returning from an N.D.E. - reborn, resurrected, and ready for lots more life!
Mark the Mystic Activist.
Huesca, Aragon,
January 2024
www.markthemysticactivist.com
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