Fablespinners: Literature's Online Open Mic!

"Close the door, you'll let in the flies."
It was too late. A passing breeze, leaf litter, or God knows what, had already spooked the swarm of mosca verde (the common green housefly, to the non-scientific tormented) into a funnel cloud that headed for the open screen door like a tornado to a mobilehome park.

I had been sitting on the porch steps watching them partying on a heaping mound of why the hell didn't she curb her dog or use a pooper-scooper. I was thinking that some forensic bug-spert could tell me the exact moment to the second when the pile was placed. Just then, the signal, known only to the flies, was given to evacuate.

I tried to swing the door shut, but between the quickness of their reflexes and the gaps in the thin screen mesh, more than half of the horde infiltrated the pristine security of our home.

"Shouldn't we cover the food, Ma?"

The flies buzzed and lit where they willed. Some found their way atop the piping hot roast, others made a beeline for the gravy made from the cream of the pan drippings. Most, first, politely wiped their multiple feet of the debris of their last resting place, on the welcome mat, Mom's oven-fresh Parker House rolls.
The one who sought rest on my sister's nose, unexpectedly, got it, eternally. So strong was her knee-jerk smack upon the place of its repose, she bloodied her own nose.

"I'll just kill 'em. Where's the spray. Afterall, it was contaminated food that carried Uncle Tommy away just a year ago, last week."

"Whoa, quick-draw!", I heard Mom say. "You know even flies have a place in the cosmic order. You don't..."

I dunno what else; I wasn't listening. I was heading for the utility room next to the living room where Dad was watching the 24-hour news station.

Today, the President made his strongest statements, ever, demanding, that the Moroni government of Sodom Biscayne destroy all of its weapons of mass destruction, or face all-out war, that if the U.N. can't form a coalition to prevent the proliferation of nuclear, chemical, biological weapons, this nation would act unilaterally.

"What's all that racket in there, I can barely hear the news."

"Mom, doesn't want me to spray a bunch of flies flying around the dinner table."

"Well, I don't want you spraying around my food, either."

Many members of Congress, some within the president's own party, question whether methods other than military intervention might be used. As Majority Leader, Senator Tim Miditty (Dem, S.D.) stated, "I'm just afraid of the collateral damage to ourselves and our allies, if such a direct method is employed."

"Do you want fly footprints in your mashed potatoes, Dad?"

"It's not a matter of fly footprints. I don't want to eat the pesta-junk in bug spray."

"Dude, I don't want to eat behind flies. Do you know that to eat something new, they vomit up the contents of what they previously ate, then suck the whole pre-digested mess back up?! That's probably what killed Uncle Tom."

The president countered his critics stating that President Biscayne had already established himself a clear and present danger to the security of this nation, since he has frequently shown no hesitation in using chemical and bio-warfare agents on his own countrymen.

"That's just a little more info than I need, son. Besides, we're not entirely sure which type of food poisoning killed your uncle. Maybe you should study the problem from a different angle."

"Ah, here is a different angle - a fly-swatter.", I said, as I ran back into the dining room. I arrived in time to witness a conjugal pair, in the midst of their romantic throes, drown in my milk glass. That was the final straw.

"Okay, I won't spray, y'all, but the entire area from here to the salad is my personal no-fly zone. Any creature that ventures south of the butter, is dead meat."

"Hey, Sis, see if you can find a rolled-up newspaper. You can hit 'em from the other end of the table."

"Wait.", my sister bleated. "Shouldn't we see if we can get a family consensus, first? If Mom and Dad agree that we should spray, or smack them, then I'll consider it."

By this time, the marshmallows on the sweet-potato casserole looked like a fly convention venue. I made an effete swipe with my fly-swatter, over the mob. They dispersed briefly but quickly re-grouped, apparently at the urging of the featured speaker.

"Enough, already, I've had it. I don't care what the rest of you decide. One more fly within my no-fly zone, I'm swatting, spraying, and hanging sticky paper."