Night Of The Flies Creative Writing

It was a balmy afternoon in January and everywhere houses lit up. Couples were coming home and doing it, stripping off their business suits and kicking off their heels. They were doing it in empty car parks, in front of mirrors, against steamy shower walls and on top of kitchen counters. They did it to honor man, to honor beast, to honor god— because they could, because they were home free and it was friday and they deserved it. They deserved it and they couldn’t wait any longer, not for the right time or right temperature, for the unknown future, for the Messiah or the Federal Election.
It was a balmy friday afternoon and the lake turned rose pink as the sun set and amethyst at dusk. A wooden house on stilts lit up with fairy lights, it’s

The rumble of the stereo penetrated the ground so that the gravel shook beneath my torn up Chuck’s and made the honky nuts roll between the littered Emu Export cans and discarded Cruiser bottles. I was eager. Tonight was the night I was going to do it. The incessant buzzing of the flies took a rest only to be replaced by the mosquitos so that when everyone arrived with their melting esky’s and sunburnt, pink cheeks the first thing they asked was, “Do you have any insect repellent, mate?” An hour later the house was bursting with hundreds of people, spewing out of the front door and out onto the verandah. They gathered out in groups underneath the tall, jarrah trees with their eyes and smiles bright creating black silhouettes and making the girls skirts grow transparent, revealing the wishbones of their legs. There was every type of girl there; Girls that were drunk, or kissing, passed out or dancing. They were bound for the city, for jerks, for nonsense degrees. Bound for returning— the way my mum begrudging had, for child-rearing and a part-time

I felt alive. We danced. The rhythm of the music penetrated my body. I absorbed the music through my skin. I am the music. You danced with your eyes clamped shut. A drop of sweat trickled down your neck and it made me realise how hot I was and I stopped and wiped my forehead. My hair was stuck to my face but I didn’t care. At some point you stopped and looked me in the eyes and then disappeared into the crowd. My thoughts for the rest of that night consisted of: Look how beautiful I am. We are all so beautiful. So sleek and slender. Where is Serene? I am powerful. These kitchen tiles are ice. I am sinking. Perhaps I am using my power to walk over the frozen ocean. Oh, hello, Louise. Your skin feels damp. Oh, yes, that feels good. Touch my muscles. Can we hug? Your so plump and warm. I’m glad you’re high, we can navigate this together. Have you seen Serene? I am a wolf. Come on girls, look at my eyes, you can stroke me if you like. That’s it, I’m climbing the stairs. Look how strong I am (it’s the wolf in me). Oh, hello Louise. We can navigate this new floor together. Shush, we shouldn’t speak. We are adventurers. I found the bathroom. You have vomit on your leggings? Take them off. Lets get in the tub. Everything will be okay. Your lips are mine. Yes, around your feet. Throw them to the lions. I am a wolf, you know. Your thighs are water slides. A furry theme park. This is sunshine. We are alive. Oh, hello,