A fly's life

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Grey, depressing clouds cover the sky as the common housefly flies over a vast grass field spotted with trees. The day the fly had emerged from its hard pellet-shaped cocoon, air pumping in and out of its soft ptilinum on the top of its head to help break the hard shell surrounding it, air flowing in and out, pumping up and deflating like a balloon, that day had been clear and sunny.  The sun had shown down on its little insect body, its wings softer than rice paper, folded against its back. The open pizza box laying neglected by a large dumpster behind a 24-hour liquor store had been his cradle. 

    It had scrambled all around, frantic, feeling something was missing, something was off. Until it felt its wings, hardening under the light of the sun which reflected off of them like shiny, pristine glass window panes. A large, molten giant whose surface never rested, boiling, exploding heat that could burn up atmospheres, destroy planets, desecrate everything in its path. With a brilliant blinding light that travels 93 million miles in only eight minutes, it kisses the fragile wings of the little creature as it flies, the world growing smaller, less imposing and intimidating, up in the open air. Its multifaceted, ruby eyes take in the cars stuck in traffic, the tall, reflective buildings, and the air filled with the smell of wasted, greasy food just waiting for it. This had been its life for two days. It could have been satisfied to exist like this for the rest of it. If that one woman had not swatted at the fly for landing on her hot dog, it never would have frantically flown over to the left, over this small, green field of grass which stood like a tiny oasis of nature in a sea of cement. It grew tired as it kept flying, needing a place to rest. 

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The poor fly lands on a wooden table, having a vague sense of not being wanted there by the sudden movements of the people around it. While only being able to fly for forty-eight hours, the fly has already been swatted and nearly squished too many times to count. It simply wasn’t as good at pretending to be something it wasn’t. It couldn’t fake the majesty of the monarch butterfly, its intricately patterned wings hiding its monstrous visage, with a face just as hideous if not more so, than that of the housefly. It didn’t have the adorable black painted spots on a red back like the lady-bug, an insect much loved by children, people even going so far as to print it on backpacks and paint it on preschool walls, despite being a carnivorous killer, bringing death to thousands of aphids. The fly was just too honest in what it was, a lover of greasy, sweet foods just like most humans. A creature who announced its presence with a loud buzz before being swatted away with disgust. Yet, each fly carries on this way every day. It is what it is until the day it dies. It lands on the food it wants, it buzzes and flies wherever it pleases. It lives an honest life. 

Enviable, in some ways. 

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Up, the poor fly soars, narrowly escaping being crushed by a book. Rays of sunlight attempt to break through the formidable clouds, only to be smothered again. The fly has the ability to dance with its wings if it chooses to. Diving and turning, looping back around, narrowly missing objects as it cuts the air with its wings. All of this sporadic movement only to come back down lightly to the surface, landing on whatever sticky substance had caught its fancy that day. 

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The fly engages in this dance only momentarily. It looks down and notices a drop of sap oozing out of a maple tree. The image alone of the delicious treat brings back a host of pleasant memories for the creature. Spilled soda over a sidewalk, a ruined hotdog someone had dropped on accident with all of the fixings, a half-eaten tootsie pop a toddler had chucked from his stroller. So many wonderful delicacies and sticky delights that it had shared with its fellow flies, risking the danger of being stepped on, swatted at, just to get a taste of something with its proboscis that made life worth living. 

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Landing directly next to the sap, the fly wastes no time in sucking at the sweet substance. There is nothing nearby that grabs its attention. The humans that try to stomp and swat at it can’t reach it up there. Up here, it is peaceful. It could suck away and wait for the sun to break through the clouds, and have another wonderful day. And if not today, there was always tomorrow. It had time to enjoy more simple yet precious moments. Sure, the fly’s life was short, but there was always time. It had seen other flies get crushed and sprayed at, but it was still alive. And the fly had no reason to think on such a peaceful day, sucking on the sweet sap, that it would ever end. There was always time. 

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A whooshing sound slices through the calm, like a  scythe cutting at a grass field. It extends out violently, blocking the dark, grey clouds with its own ominous shadow. Then it extends back, catching the fly in a tight grip, ripping it away from its meal. 

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Where once there was refreshing, cold air moving along the fly’s back, now there was pressure, pinning the poor fly’s wings against its back. Its pair of wings that had allowed the fly to escape death so many times, to fly into the sky, was now crushed into its back, making it feel as helpless as it had felt in the beginning. It was suddenly a maggot again, struggling and squirming. 

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The thing holding the fly in its claw-like arm looks at it with its tiny, cold black spots in its giant, fishbowl eyes. Its curious stare at what it’s caught as it cocks its triangle-shaped head gives a temporary flare of hope to the little fly. Maybe it’ll be let go. Free to go back to its meal. But the thing’s curiosity is similar to a fisherman sizing up the fish he’s just caught. There’s no going back to the water for the fish. No going back to the sky for the fly. The creature covets the fly’s ruby eyes. 

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It chews mechanically at the fly’s left eye. Tearing, tearing, all very perfunctory, cold and perfect. The fly turns its one good eye away from the creature, away from the end of its life, back towards the clouds, dark and oppressive, hoping to see one last ray of light, one last bit of warmth. Time slows as the fly hopes and hopes for the sun, as the creature slowly rips into the fly’s other eye. Just one more time. 

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