M IS FOR MAGGOT

CLARA KRISTANDA | CREATIVES



I was born a pile of goo on that perfect, humid night, when the air was fragrant with those summer smells and the rest of the world had gone to sleep. I imagine my mother fulfilling her purpose, looking at the miracle of little me, then having to go hurriedly away, leaving me here alone. Where she came from, what she looked like – she knew I would never know. Though she herself must’ve known what she was doing, because my very first memory in this sort of orphanage was the sum of my upbringing.


The dawn of my consciousness involved me scavenging with the other children through bin bags, having fun, carefree of time and society. I was never taught how to act like a lady, and although I grew up in this centre, privilege was what my childhood was comprised of. In the morning, we would get up and race to eat breakfast, though we never went hungry. During the daytime, we played as we wanted, tumbling over each other in a place free from swooping birds and violent people. Evening brought us another pile of food – and so this was our routine: we lived hour by hour, we grew fat, loved each other, loved ourselves.


You may imagine that our orphanage was a sort of Eden – we had a healthy amount of sunlight, our centre was always maintained. The air had a gorgeous pungency to it; we considered each other siblings. In fact, some of those children may well have been my siblings. To this day, I have no idea whether we were supervised by adults… I know that nowadays we have evolved to not need our parents, but something maternal in me still makes it seem like a preposterous idea to let hundreds of children go wild like that, in such a large establishment.


Nevertheless, I look back on my childhood fondly. My mother knew I’d be happy there – it is perhaps why she laid me in that strange but safe place.


Though of course, in time, I eventually matured to dream of better places, new faces. I wondered what it would be like to have a face. While I slept, I envisioned wings sprouting out of me, being a beauty to men, having many children like I imagined my mother having.


Reader, I tell you this again: I was never brought up as a Proper Lady should be; my mother was never there to teach me her ways. Even still in that absence, I relied on my Divine Femininity, trusted my instincts – do not all women have their natural whims?


The urge for metamorphosis grew stronger over time. I eventually succumbed, as a woman does: when I was a teen I stepped naked and fully into the light of day for the first time. Enveloped in the midday summer air, I saw real adults passing me, their own wings fully developed. A pregnant woman walked past, her wide eyes filled with joy, I assume, for what was to come.


Bear in mind I was still a child, trying to find myself. I was alone, unmothered, uncoddled, with nothing but my own outlook for myself to guide me. I travelled to hidden corners of buildings, trying to bring myself to the safest place possible. Reader, I eventually did find a place. A brick housing for myself: robust, private, again a safe space. I got to work.


I shut myself up in my cocoon for many days and nights, silent always. In that home I had learned about the world, melted my own identity. I could not tell you every detail in that flurry of a time, but I can tell you: I once again became that pile of goo, ready to be rebirthed and continue on the work of powerful women. I changed my look to be more alluring, I grew proper legs, hair, and sensual hips, ready for detailed eyes to observe and pine over. I discovered my sexuality. In those days, my brain restructured itself as expected, and after a while I crawled out, no longer the fat child I grew up as.


A few hours ago, I flew out past the ever-symbolic mirror. I now have the bug-eyes so close they almost touch, and my face shines iridescent in the right lighting. I have grown those legs and hips and my body is healthy, a glimpse of my life-bringer’s body.


The men must know I’ve just come out of the cocoon, because they all want me, especially the older ones that grow desperate. I have many suitors that have promised me healthy eggs, have vowed to take care of me and bring me food, and stroke my hair. One lives lavish in a kitchen drawer, another has the most dashing scarlet eyes that look me up and down.


Currently, I am on a date with the scarlet-eyed one, as I think he has the better genes to provide me with healthier babies. We are visiting the place where I grew up, and it seems the bin is still running smoothly. This generation’s children are doing as I did, rolling around, eating whatever is thrown out: I still see no adults there to supervise them. He says he wants to elope with me to a new town, where he thinks the scenery is better and the place less crowded.


We are sitting in each other’s company, overlooking that little orphanage of mine. He strokes my thorax, when suddenly he starts to climb on top of me.


Mother, mum, mummy, whatever I am supposed to call you – thank you for providing me with the opportunity to be a woman. I cannot conjure up the right words to express how grateful I am to you, so instead I will do a good job for you and have many, many babies. My life cycle will be complete.