The Sunday Whirl

The fly seemed to switch back and forth over the exposed bones as if it was an altar. It had observed the dying man for a while as he crawled, gasping, after the battle. The fly wondered why any human would martyr themselves in such futile violence. Humans were difficult to understand, but on the other hand, they had a lot more time than the fly’s species. It faltered over the broken corpse with a last look, then dismissed and flitted over to a strip of shattered bottle, where some spilled sweet liquid still remained.

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