HORROR STORY OF NEST FLIES Annie Hurley A

August 13th ere is a nest of ies in my house. I am certain of this. ere is a nest of ies in my house. I am certain of this. ey buzz incessantly, a melody that follows me with every step I take. Each breath comes with a thrum, an irritating hum of insects. It is as if they are just behind me, hiding just out of my sight, but each time that I whip around searching for the source of the sound, nothing is there. Just me, and that damned noise. e cleaning is not because of the ies, though I understand why my friends might correlate them. No, my hours of grooming in the shower are because of the dirt. e dirt is always there. I cannot get rid of it. is is not helping my insistence in my own sanity, but I beg you to believe me. I nd dirt in every crevice: underneath my nails, in my ears, caked between my toes. I do not know where it comes from. I wash and wash and wash and every day I will wake up and the dirt has returned. It is as if I will never be clean. e ies have not quit in their torment, unfortunatelyrather, their vociferous hum grows with each passing day. Beyond that, I have begun nding their corpses upon my pillow. ese bodies were not there when I fell asleep, but they appear when I wake, brown smudges of dried blood and appendages stuck to the fabric in a grotesque display of death. e ies drown out my thoughts, and exhaustion follows me in my waking hours. I do not feel human anymore, just an embodiment of lth. I lack the energy to clean, however, so I have no reprieve from my crawling skin and the dirt that cakes my hands. Laundry also remains an unachievable task at the moment, so I have found myself falling back upon that blood-crusted pillow without a second thought.

My friends do not hear them; they tell me that I must be imagining things, that there are no ies. ObsessiveCompulsive, one of them suggested quietly. at I am demonstrating signs of the mental illness, that I am so obsessed about cleanliness that I have somehow convinced myself that there are ies in my house, and that’s the reason why I spend hours scrubbing at myself with soap, rubbing, rubbing, until my skin is bloody-pink, and the noise of ies is drowned out by the sound of my heavy breathing.

It does not really help my case that both me and my friends have spent hours scouring the entire place from top to bottom, and no nest can be found. I even hired some exterminators to nd what I could not, but they also had no luck.

I suppose that I am writing all this down to make a point of my own tale. A point to my own sanity. Proof that I am not lying. Proof of the passage of days. Any of that.

August 14th.

I suppose I am ill.

Not mentally, I hope - though can you ever really know – but I mean that I feel physically unwell. Nauseous all the time, and shaky. Eating does not interest me anymore, so maybe that could be the cause to all the nausea. I have tried to, you know, I know that alive people need to eat. It is quite important. I just cannot bring myself to do it. e food tastes like nothing, like rot, and it never stays down. I really try to, I swear.

Writing tires me. I spent a while trying to write everything yesterday, and I fell asleep for a while after that. I must admit, the date on this diary entry is merely a supposition, as it was dark when I embarked into my slumber, and it is light now. To be fair, I am not entirely certain if yesterday truly was the thirteenth. But I must assign numbers to things, otherwise I will lose track. Forget. It is good for me to remember.

Proof in my nest theory, however, I still cannot nd their origin. It sickens me, that I am sharing my space with such vile creatures.

My limbs ache, and I fear that I may fall again into this depthless slumber once again, only to wake up in a scene of carnage. I will write again once I get the chance.

August.

I do not know how long it has been.

I do not remember.

I wish this had not happened. I think I am wrong, in a way. I am not supposed to be here.

August.

I think I have found the nest of ies. I cannot remember where.

August.

I think I have found the nest of ies. I think they are inside of me. I think they have always been, since my rebirth.

I do not know who did this to me, who dug me out from the endless sleep, but I detest them. is is not a true existence; this is the false puppetry of a decaying corpse. I detest them. e ies inside of my hum, and all I can think of is returning to sleep. Yet, I keep waking.

I am the sins of a corrupted nature. I should not exist. I am all alone. I am so incredibly lonely, and, more than anything, I want to sleep.

Seasonal

Anjali

Konda

Dappled shadows on dewy grass, Fond memories of days past

The sun forgave the moon, Sharing the heavens at noon, Butter yellow butterflies

Forgotten off-white lies. Honey lavender hugs, cold hands, warm mugs, chock full of hot chocolate

Sight blurry, up late laughing stress away, heavy eyes-someone’ll pay. Blizzards of busy-ness

Her problems are her business

Stress flurries, drips to a flood

She worries her lips to blood

Melting to soggy dead grass

I don’t think winter wonderlands last Tulips wake first Showers fall to quench their thirst

As night makes way for day And the critters come to play Tired grins bid the year to end, Ready to do it all again?

Nightfalls

Elise

Cho

sun o'er moon, around, around– to nightfalls again. in time, whisp'rin taunt, i hear you!

my tired haunts wreathing 'round shadowed halls, and in closed eyes, i can believe you true. listen, just once. don't leave, not yet. i know, three a.m, then four, then to breaching morn'. near the bend, worn tracks steadily followed, and end begins, beginning ends in sight. moon o'er sun, with no trace, no sound, you're gone. is it a gift to be wished happier, to simmer in unfulfilled hope you brought? again, left to haunted thoughts, i wonder: did you need me without wanting? or instead: you want me without needing?