“So what are the classics, then?” His beady eyes focused intently on his father’s multitude of lenses. The boy could not decide which lens to look at, but wanted to communicate his passion by staring at something. So, he made his best guess, and focused somewhere in the middle. “Dig through the cassettes yourself! I’m done trying to talk to you about it.” His father’s wings buzzed anxiously against the car interior. The boy’s father hated this car; it wasn’t big enough. “Every maggot’s the same. I can’t believe that I double-backed to rescue you. I coulda been out at the moldy yogurt, but instead—””I found an interesting one!”, his son interjects. “It’s by ‘The Beatles.’ Cool name. Are they beetles?” His father snorts, “No. They’re flies like us. Beetles can’t make this kind of music because it’s made by actual musicians.”
The two sit in silence for a moment. The boy spots another maggot in a car alongside them on the highway. He quickly ducks his head in embarrassment when she notices him looking.
The father sniffs the air, “Do you smell that? You ate my lunch, so I haven’t eaten in ages. The two pull over at a truck stop to grab a quick bite. The boy groans and waves his long, tubular head back and forth in annoyance.
The two pull over at a truck stop to grab a quick bite. The attendant is kind, pointing out where to go to purchase food. While they’re waiting patiently, a roach approaches the father, who looks weak from hunger. “Hey. That’s a nice boy you got there. I’m curious: why’d you bring him? Why are you taking care of him?” The father’s wings slump as he draws a heavy sigh. “I’m taking him where there’s humidity. We lived at the Baker’s place, but they remodeled the bathroom where we laid eggs, and I couldn’t leave all the kids in those conditions.” Ignoring the conversation, the boy eyes a machine that is emitting a thick, squelchy sound as it pumps large, steamy sludge into another bug’s cup. The two exchange a brief glance before the recipient vomits all over it and eats the resulting porridge. Some of it splatters onto the floor. “Dad, can I have some?” His father’s wings slump further. “No. We need to get you someplace safe.” The boy stares silently at the bug leaving, wishing that his path to happiness could be so simple as purchasing a gas station beverage.
“You want to drive?” The two continue moving towards the car—father walking along while his son slides forward. “Dad, I don’t have hands.” A moment of silence. “Right.”
The two sit in their motel room. “Do you actually have a plan? Like, or are you just doing this because Mom asked you to?” The bed creaks as the father goes into the bathroom, turning on the sink, bumping his wing into the doorframe and grimacing while his son continues, “I don’t even know you.” The sink shuts off abruptly. The father enters the room with towels hanging off the spiny hairs on his arms. He sits down, facing away from his son, before responding, “Nobody really expects me to help you out, you know.” His son quickly responds, “Exactly! So, why are you doing this?” The father’s chest tightens as he draws another large breath, as though he were trying to suck in the entire world and hold it until his lungs give in. After a while, he responds, slow and measured, “I’ve had tons of kids. I was never partial to any of them; didn’t really know most of them; you’re no exception.” His son tottered irritatedly. “That said, it gets lonesome out here. I could use a companion. We don’t see women for long in our lives, and our lives are pretty short; I figure, ‘Why not just pair up with one of my own kids?’ You’ll see the world, but I can give you a quick flavor before I go. That’s why. Does that sound good?”
For a moment, the two sat in silence; after a while, he turned back towards his son. “Hey, did you hear me? I’m spilling my soul out here.” He nudges him, sending him tumbling to the floor, his body hardened into a pupa, silent. A few moments pass, the father whispers, “Shit.”