The truth about flying monkeys is this: they need no simile, no Wizard of Oz, no green witch. Clearly, they do not have to be like something to be respected or understood.
Flying monkeys are voiceless primates with hawk feathers and nervous skin. They are hoverers, wrathful territorialists, all fist and tooth and silent flight. They work routes, they leave no paths, and most importantly, they love the vine, to hold and not to swing. There is no other more touchy creature. They sleep forehead to forehead, stomach to stomach, knee to knee.
Their young suckle until the blood. They smell the heat. They heed invisible beckon, the inner ear function often lost upon flight. Their deaths are almost always a landing that sends them smashing on the ground of the moon.
What do you know of the Flying Monkey? What do you think about fiction with no metaphor? Is it possible?
In honor of Stephen at Novel Doctor for giving me an assignment I could complete, at least in short, and also in honor of my friend Colin who suggested I write without using metaphor. I don’t think I did it.