The Fall of Flies

Prelude to Silence

Desperate to get out of the cold.

Winter is on the horizon. Its frosty breath whispers through the autumn air. The plummeting temperatures drive flies to desperation. Their tiny bodies cling to the screen, seeking solace and delaying their impending demise.

A flicker of compassion crosses my mind as I swiftly shut the window. Leaving them to their fate. Was there any semblance of sympathy in the preceding months? As I, armed with my trusty salt gun, meticulously aimed and catapulted them into oblivion.

Not in the least.

The flies, tormentors of both me and my critters, left their mark wherever they roamed. Buzzing around eyes, entangling in hair, and leaving their specks scattered about. Though they may revel in filth, it is pure joy to spread their shit everywhere.

Outside, the frost is painting the grass silver. They sit on the blades, soaking up the last rays of the sun. Their small bodies shivering, their wings fragile. I watch as the cold claims them, their bodies turning into tiny ice sculptures.

Aware of their dwindling time, they invade my sanctuary. Their buzzing louder, more frantic, as if conveying an urgent message. But their language is alien to me, a cryptic dialogue I have no desire to decipher.

By the fireplace, a group of them have gathered, sharing tales of their summer conquests, of times they dived into fruit bowls and danced on fresh bakes. I add a log to the fire, sparks flying, heat intensifying. They scatter in chaos, their tales cut short—like their lifespans.

On the counters, I encounter them belly-up, wings flapping frantically in vain attempts to regain balance. Legs kicking every which way. All six of them. Their struggles, though pitiful, are futile.

Some find themselves trapped in the sink, a quick twist of the tap ending their plight.

The faint gasps of the desperate reach my ears, yet I remain indifferent. Allowing them the luxury of savoring their final moments. Their destination is the garbage, a fitting burial ground. And for those still clinging to life, isn’t this a version of paradise? A final embrace in the ripeness of the bin.

That fleeting semblance of compassion tries to surface, much like the floundering flies. But is quickly subdued by the comfort of their absence.

For in the end, it’s the silence that wins, the quietude of a house without the buzzing. The tranquility of a winter morning without the annoyance of a fly in my coffee.

The fleeting compassion is replaced by a serene satisfaction, a peaceful delight in their fall.

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