A fly's life

A fly - tiny, annoying, and lives for one day and one day alone...thus, captured amongst these words, is a fly's life.

A fly sits on his perch behind the drawn window curtains, wings floating around its small, hairy form. Outside, the sun had just crested the horizon and birthed itself into the sky and clouds, warming the earth into bloom and blossom.

The curtains, yellow and mottling, illuminate in the sun's warm rays, the light therein bleeding out into a dust-covered home with dust-covered floorboards rotten and termite-riddled; dust-covered mantlepiece and dust-covered furniture - dust and then some of forgotten souls and distant beings now packed up and shipped into a new home, free of dust and old breath.

The fly strokes its long legs over his face and eyes till he is alert and fresh. He pushes off from his home and makes his daily patrol around the abandoned house, steering clear of the tendril-torn cobwebs abandoned with the house, barrel-rolling under the creaky stairs and flying up to the upstairs bedrooms.

What little crumbs and things that were here were gone now, eaten by the fly's voracious appetite. He paused, this little fly, on the metal railing above the window to catch his breath before buzzing off downstairs, out the jagged emptiness of the broken porch window, and into the sun and the sky and the world beyond.

The clouds lifted the fly into higher, deeper currents, pockets of still air dropping him in a free fall as he let the air take him away over the small town he was born in. He zips through the traffic and honking horns, the curses and middle fingers, and floats to a stop on an outdoor Starbucks table. The shadow of the umbrella above him is cool and refreshing, and the fly lets his little wings rest before taking off once more, buzzing, buzzing around a final time before a jarring heaviness of a rolled up newspaper slams him onto the table, anguished screams muted as the fly's severed body is swept off the table and crushed under the sneakers of a  random pedestrian.

Author's Note

Randomness in its truest form. Say what you will...