Maggot Therapy

A gaping wound as far as the eye can see. Putrid exudate bubbling within like albino lava. Floating in naturally like dandelion petals, writhing cylindrical forms by the thousands land and attach to the necrotized fields, begin to liquidate the black fetid earth. Feed. Writhing in the wound for days under the neverending hot sun. Planet of awesome stillness and ragged rust terrain. Striving to exist, transform, with no intention to heal, beings bereft of intention, but healing nonetheless. Fattening up and finally, hatching into human form. Naked blind squirming gelatinous bodies of thousands of men. Crying because they can’t see. Motherless and helpless, utterly alone. Can’t fly away into the bleeding, burning sun, yet that’s all they yearn for now. Born on dead tissue. Healing their host.

The massive host rises, head distorted by the massive red sun. Thousands of men freefall hundreds of feet and burst on the ground in pustular and sanguine explosions. It reaches down and plucks out the fledgling humans remaining lodged in its wound and pops them in its mouth, bursting their plump screaming flailing bodies, consuming that which had cleansed its wound. It is time to return to battle. He is healed.

One survivor, half-maggot, half-man,  clings to a hair high up on the now moving host. With each thudding stride, his grip weakens, but still he holds on. He can’t for the life of him think of why.


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