The Maggot

Art by Sarah Cannavino (2016 archive)

        Of all the creatures in the canon of creation, the maggot is the most wretched. The larval offspring of flies, one of nature’s most notorious and annoying pests. The maggot is a legless grub that wriggles and writhes about in the muck of death, feasting greedily on the waste and carcasses of more refined creatures. They stuff their gobs until they can’t any longer, eventually attaining their pestering wings and going on to start the cycle again. A large swath of these squalid worms have staked their claim on the body of Harold Quay, who lies dead in a ditch staring ever at the sun, a few miles from the California-Mexico border. His putrid odor lured the flies toward him, and his lack of movement proved to the little demons that his body would make for an excellent nest. Eventually, the eggs hatched and those squirming abominations got to eating.

        They worked tirelessly below the skin, tearing at the tissue of his form and flailing about. Their little minds do not have the space to comprehend much of anything at all beyond their insatiable appetite, let alone the moral quandary of meat consumption. So they continue to rip flesh from flesh, chewing aggressively with mouths so small they can hardly be seen. What they lack in size they make up for in number. Thousands of tiny jaws toil tirelessly at their meal. Soon, the chest cavity begins to collapse, making way for the maggots to cut muscle from the rib. Some eat out the eyes or dwell happily in the softness of his jowls. They crawl beneath his dirty toenails and scrape the muck into their gullets, a delicacy. This grotesque display of gluttony marches on and, in time, they find new places to dwell and consume. The dry, sun-cracked lips and cottonmouth tongue make for good eating, as do the swelling, gooping scabs that form around ingrown hairs. None of these are quite adventurous enough for one maggot who begins to bore a hole into the brain of poor Mr. Quay.

        That delicious gray matter makes for fine dining. It’s soft and gooey, much like an oyster or a fine butter, melting in the mouth and dancing with flavor. This, the maggot finds, is like eating a five-course meal at a Michelin Star restaurant. The taste of perfectly cooked steak, a boiled lobster, and carefully kept caviar could not compare to the sensation our little friend was experiencing at this moment. The maggot, with no tab to pay, proceeded to feast, drilling deeper and deeper into the fatty mass of Quay’s inactive mind until it reached a vital location: the hippocampus. The stomach is filling rapidly, but the maggot cannot stop. And why should he with all this scrumptious material around him? Certainly, another bite couldn’t hurt. So the bug opened its jaw again and, sinking its miniscule teeth into the flaccid goop, changed completely.

        For a moment, the maggot wasn’t in the brain of Harold Quay. He looked down at his rugged, calloused hands. He was riding a sleek brown packhorse along a trail that went down into the center of a canyon. The sun beat down like an aggressive boxer, each ray striking the man and his horse with full force. He just rode on as if the punches were the bites of a sickly mosquito, irritating his skin later but hardly having an effect on him now besides the pooling sweat that stuck his greasy hair to his forehead. He took a swig from his canteen and spoke to some other traveller behind him. 

        We’re getting close, he said. Do you think we’ll run into any trouble at the border?

        Doubt it, replied his companion in a thick Mexican accent. And if we do, it’s not like we haven’t killed before.

        I guess you’re right, the man admitted. I just hope it doesn’t have to come to that.

        They continued their precarious journey along the cliffside trail, taking refuge in whatever shade they could find along the way. Quiet filled the air, split only by the ominous gobbling of nearby turkey vultures. Soon, the dark began its descent, and they set up camp for the night beneath a dead tree which sat about ten yards from the ledge of the canyon. The sun painted the whole desert in a wash of orange and red, setting behind the wall of dusty rock and packed dirt that enveloped the canyon. Scorpions scampered, birds swooped down to rest in the sparse, scorched fauna that dotted and decorated the landscape. A few times, the man’s companion had to chase off a hungry buzzard. The desert was alive with the noise of insects and sunshine alike. 

        The man looked out over the ledge at God’s creation. He felt the sweat on his brow, the soft breeze on his skin. What was this feeling? The maggot couldn’t quite place it, for emotions were not its strong suit. The tranquil hum of the land was calming though, and the desire to feast was put at bay for a little longer. The man, entranced by the world around him, was suddenly pulled back into reality by the click of a cocking gun. 

        Don’t make this harder than it has to be Harold. That Mexican accent, once friendly and kind, was cold and treacherous now. Don’t turn around. Don’t try to fight. I can take you alive. A long pause allowed the wonder of the earth to dissipate. The orange glow quickly changed to reveal a windy, overcast night. Or dead.

        Carlos. The man replied. Please. You don’t have to do this. We both want the same thing.

        I want money, Harold. And you’re going to give it to me.

        I gave you your share. Was that not enough?

        I don’t want a share. I want more.

        Don’t make me kill you, Carlos.

        A long pause, now.

        I won’t.

        Then: darkness.

        Silence.

        The maggot, dumbfounded by its sudden consciousness, fell motionless. Depleted of its energy, it knew it had to eat more to survive. The maggot wiggled forth and persisted in its ceaseless consumption. Suddenly, he was clutching the neck of a pale, slender individual. His moustache, pencil thin and too close to the lip, was the focus of Harold’s gaze, before shifting to the vibrant red of the carpet. He couldn’t look the porter in the eyes.

        Why’d you have to try and be a hero? Harold cried.

        The porter gurgled in response, struggling to break free of Harold’s firm grip. 

         I’m sorry, son. I know you didn’t ask for this. 

         The porter slowly closed his eyes and went limp. Standing up, Harold felt the twinge of regret as well as a soreness in his chest. Looking out the window, he listened to the rumbling of train tracks below his feet. Carlos, having gathered the jewels of the first-class passengers, smiled grimly, revealing a multitude of golden teeth that glimmered in his mouth. ‍

        You ready to blow this joint?

        Not yet.

        Harold walked past Carlos into the luxury train car and, surveying the frightened bankers, lawyers and doctors, found someone he recognized.

        Martha! He called.

        Tears came to the eyes of the terrified woman, her chestnut brown hair spilling onto her face in thin strands. A man in a gray tweed suit rose to meet him. It was easy to see why she’d loved him. He was brave enough to stand up for her, but was clearly not a fighting man. His hands were too soft and gentle-looking. They couldn’t be more different from Harold’s. This made his chest burn with unyielding hatred, but something else too. In his heart, a profound misery.

        If you want to get to her, the man said, You’ll have to get through me.

        Martha shook her head, already anticipating what was about to happen.

        Please, Harold. Don’t—

        A resounding bang filled the car, sending Martha into a sobbing fit. Her eyes clenched shut and tears forced their way out. She screamed something about hating Harold as long as she lived, but he ignored her. He turned a full one hundred eighty degrees, stopped to catch his breath, and walked forward. Leaving the car, he met back up with Carlos.

        We done here?

        Yeah. We’re done.

        The maggot gorged on. Now Harold was somewhere else, somewhere greener, where the dry desert air was replaced by dense humidity. The trees were alive and green, friendlier birdsongs resounded, and the hum was of a different nature. This wasn’t the desert kind of hum, no, but the chirping screech of cicadas. He was sitting on a porch, a glass of lemonade in his hand. He took a sip and the sugary tartness attacked his taste buds. He swung back and forth in a dirty white rocking chair and placed his mason jar glass on a rusty metal table. The stench of rotting crops filled his nostrils. He grinded his teeth in intense frustration. His beard was little more than scruff at this point and his hat wasn’t so ragged, his clothes not so filthy. Harold still looked like he had been through hell, and the throbbing pain in his shoulder was proof that he had. Listening intently to the cicada’s scream, Harold heard something else, the rattling of a trunk being loaded onto a horse-drawn carriage. 

        He descended from his wooden throne and turned the corner, stunned to see an old man putting the last of Martha’s things into the wooden bed of a carriage. She sat regally near the front in a white dress with lace, her beautiful hair fixed in a neat bun, shimmering in the sunlight. The old man looked at Harold cautiously, expecting the inevitable.

        Well, Harold managed to say. Where are you going?

        Away, she replied haughtily. 

        When will you be back?

        I’m heading for Sacramento.

        When will you be back?

        I-

        When?

        The cicada’s agonizing shriek could be heard all around. The old man, hunch-backed and ugly, was silent. A blowfly zipped around his face and landed on the man’s nose. He didn’t even blink, his bulging, wet eyes looking on in anticipation. Finally, Martha mustered up the courage to break the silence.

        If all goes well, never.

        Harold nodded his head a few times, rubbed his itchy face, and turned to walk inside. He stayed in the coolness of his farmhouse for a brief moment, doing his best to remain calm. Of course, he didn’t. He grabbed his rifle, issued to him by a dead country and carved with the names of dead men, and kicked the yellow door right off its hinges. He aimed directly at Martha and clenched his teeth.

        You won’t leave me.

        Martha didn’t even flinch.

        You won’t kill me, she replied. You’ll beat me, berate me, threaten me. But you won’t kill me.

        Harold lowered his gun, threw it into the flowerbed amongst the hydrangeas, and dropped to his knees. He pushed those worked hands into his face and wept. He heard the old man mount the carriage and begin to take Martha from him, but he did nothing to stop her. He simply mourned on the front steps of his wraparound porch, listening to the cicadas sing. 

        The maggot continues to eat, savoring each moment, relishing the new world that has opened up to its tiny little mind. Again, a memory arose. Harold’s hands are not in sight. Nothing is. Everything is dark, but far from quiet. There is screaming all around, orders being shouted, the wounded calling for their loved ones. Cannonballs strike the earth, sending spurts of dirt and dry grass everywhere. Harold opened his eyes to see that the rebel flag, in all its orange glory, still waved. His scratchy gray uniform adorned his body, he sweat like a mule, and he held that wretched gun in his hand. He fired a shot at the enemy, denoted by their blue rags compared to his gray ones, missing wildly. He then began the process of reloading. This cycle continued for hours on end. The Tennessee birds weren’t singing, and those Southern trees, sycamore and oak, watched stoically as the human race, the American people, tore themselves apart. 

        Harold watched as his friends were stripped of life. Their eyes weren’t closed, though. They hadn’t the time to grow weary. No, their eyes remained glazed open, stuck in terror. He began to reload his gun, when he felt a striking, gruesome pain in his shoulder. He fell back into the dirt and clawed at the wound. A young boy, no older than sixteen, came to his defense, but he too was murdered. The blood spattered and sputtered from his neck and all over Harold’s face. He could taste the iron on his tongue, feel the marble texture of fresh blood on his lips. The great bellow resounded in his head, but to the rest of the soldiers it likely just blended into the chaos. Harold pushed himself off the ground and bolted away, tripping, falling, rising, tripping again. The sprint took him far away from the sounds of war and into a large open field of golden wheatgrass. He passed houses, once noble representatives of the antebellum world he knew, now decrepit and sad, deshingled and drooping. Eventually, he gathered the courage to approach one. A withering, aged woman with matted gray hair and hardly any teeth sat on the porch.

        Coward, she said.

        Excuse me? Harold asked.‍

        I said you’re a coward.

        Could I just stay the night?

        Ain’t no room for deserters, kid. Come back when the war’s over.

        Please, ma’am. He wiped the sweat from his brow. I’m tired. I don’t want to fight anymore.

        Then what do you want?

        I want to live.

        Men don’t live. Men die. Men kill. Now haul your ass back that way. She pointed in the direction of Hades. Or I’ll kill you myself.

        The maggot was starved, not for food, but for knowledge. It ate. It saw that beautiful, pre-war wedding, Martha dressed in white, shining with happiness, like a freshly polished coin. Her shimmering teeth behind a radiant smile lit up Harold’s heart. It filled the maggot with rage. So, it ate more. It remembered when all was right with the world, when the harvest was in full swing, when Harold watched the brown bodies continue their sweeping wave toward the horizon. It remembered when he was a young boy working with his Pa, a gristley man, firm but loving, intimidating but kind. He remembered hearing about his mother’s death, how she couldn’t handle the pain of childbirth. He recalled meeting Martha for the first time while moving a crop shipment to Chattanooga. Her father never liked him. He remembered those Tennessee trees, those ambient hums, those rugged hands. God, how he missed his hands.

        Harold, trapped in the body of this little larva, continued to eat, continued to remember, continued to reflect. He tore at his flesh, sick to his stomach and full, but he had to consume more. He was getting fat for a grub, though where else could a maggot store emotions than in its stomach. Soon, there was nothing left to remember. He ate a few more bites but got nothing. No. He thought. This can’t be it, there has to be more. But it was done. The maggot had its buffet and began to feel fatigued. No Dammit! I’m not doing that! Harold wanted out. He wanted to see those orange washed sands, hear that insectoid hum. He wanted to live.

        Wriggling and writhing, Harold pushed his way forward, back through the brain and out through the nostril. He looked at his hideous body, festering with death, teeming with life. Thousands of brothers and sisters stupidly shambling around in the muck. They had not been enlightened. A seething rage filled his soul. He wanted to cry out, but opening his mouth, not a sound escaped. Wearily, he looked to the sky, gazing at its bluish-purple hue. It was early morning just before the sun broke the horizon. It wasn’t the bewitching sunset hue he loved so dearly, but it would do.

        A turkey vulture swooped down, its hideous, scabby head twitching to and fro. It leered at the body. Harold thought fast, trained by his years in the war, and began to work his way back toward the nose. 

        It can’t reach me there! I’ll be safe. He laughed, or would have laughed, at his siblings, who inanely accepted defeat, but this was his downfall. For as he tried to turn, his mind, preoccupied by his disgust, did not have full control of his flailing body. He tumbled into his lips and, for a brief moment, saw the impending doom of the vulture’s beak, before he was gone.

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