Mathieu Cailler
After the insect read Metamorphosis, he awoke as a human. His cozy corner of the garage was too small for his new body, so he unfolded his limbs and stood up, extending his hairy arms over his head and popping a few vertebrae in his neck. He studied himself in the reflection of the antique mirror the Johnsons (he’d seen their name on a piece of dropped mail) had picked up at an estate sale but had yet to hang. He inspected his muscular shoulders, thick pectorals, and rippled stomach. His penis intrigued him, reminding him of a snail he’d dated one wet summer in Daytona Beach.
Since the Johnsons were out of town, he, now having the strength of a man, broke a side window and let himself in. He rummaged through the man’s closet. (He thought his name was Kyle). Dressing up always intrigued him, so he grabbed the necessary garments from the closet and before long, paired pleated slacks with a white shirt. He donned some suspenders and a burnt orange tie. He then found a heavy blue blazer and shoehorned his size twelve feet into some loafers that squeezed his meaty toes. After that, he sauntered to the kitchen and cooked himself a large breakfast. No longer forced to eat crumbs from the grout lines and from the space underneath the fridge, he made twelve pieces of toast and layered each one with globs of peanut butter. He then poured himself a champagne flute of orange juice and took to the terrace. There, he ate tranquilly. As he pondered what to do with the rest of his day—drive into the city? eat at a French restaurant? try to seduce a human woman?—he spotted some of his friends, other insects, lurking behind pots and curled up in decayed wood. He beckoned them with a quick wave. And before long, hundreds of them, black and leggy, swarmed the table. He fed them peanut butter toast. He dribbled juice upon the table for them to lap up. He wondered some more about the rest of his day.
Since the Johnsons were out of town, he, now having the strength of a man, broke a side window and let himself in. He rummaged through the man’s closet. (He thought his name was Kyle). Dressing up always intrigued him, so he grabbed the necessary garments from the closet and before long, paired pleated slacks with a white shirt. He donned some suspenders and a burnt orange tie. He then found a heavy blue blazer and shoehorned his size twelve feet into some loafers that squeezed his meaty toes. After that, he sauntered to the kitchen and cooked himself a large breakfast. No longer forced to eat crumbs from the grout lines and from the space underneath the fridge, he made twelve pieces of toast and layered each one with globs of peanut butter. He then poured himself a champagne flute of orange juice and took to the terrace. There, he ate tranquilly. As he pondered what to do with the rest of his day—drive into the city? eat at a French restaurant? try to seduce a human woman?—he spotted some of his friends, other insects, lurking behind pots and curled up in decayed wood. He beckoned them with a quick wave. And before long, hundreds of them, black and leggy, swarmed the table. He fed them peanut butter toast. He dribbled juice upon the table for them to lap up. He wondered some more about the rest of his day.
Mathieu Cailler is the author of seven books: a novel, two short story collections, two volumes of poetry, and two children’s titles. His stories, poems, and essays have appeared in over one hundred publications, including Wigleaf, the Saturday Evening Post, and the Los Angeles Times. He has received many prestigious awards, including a Pushcart Prize; a Readers’ Favorite Award; and accolades from the Paris, Los Angeles, and New England Book Festivals. You can connect with him on social media @writesfromla or visit his website at mathieucailler.com.
