The Word Cloud

August being the summer holidays in the Cloud's homeland, an easy-peasy one this time.

Breathing his last breath, the fly looked through the glass. What is this barrier? I should be through, I should be free. Who could do such a thing, what is the thing before me? My time has come, I had so many dreams, things to see. My favourite mound, my beautiful sea, the air in my wings, So many colours around me. Stuck as I am, end is in sight, as something comes before me. Splat, who is that on the other side. Stuck, just like me. Another, thinking the same, thwarted in this game.

The Fly

Chives appeared, more flustered than usual.

“Chives, swat that damned fly for me, there’s a good chap.” I gestured towards the speck on the pane.

“Very good, Sir,” he replied, moving towards the infested area. He assessed the situation and then strode to the magazine rack.

“This should suffice,” he said, with a hint of mischief in his voice. He picked out The Science of Life, and advanced towards the window. Deducing his intentions, I intervened.

“Good God, Man! Not that. It was a gift from HG Wells.”

Chives begrudgingly retraced his steps, and plucked an alternative.

“The Illustrated London News, Sir?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said, “but first show me the cover.”

He presented the face of the magazine towards me, as if it were a vintage wine.

“Who is that, Chives?”

“I forget her name, Sir, but I believe she succeeded in flying from London to Australia.”

“Australia, you say. Bravo! In that case it would be disrespectful to smudge the old girl’s face, don’t you think?”

“As you wish, Sir, I will take care not to spoil the good lady’s visage.”

He rolled the magazine, with the back cover facing outwards. I resumed reading, but was soon interrupted.

“The elusive insect appears to have moved, Sir.” He discerned my confusion, and continued. “Quite possibly, it has escaped through the open window.”

“The devious blighter. Well keep your eyes open in case it returns, Chives.”

“Of course, Sir. And if that’s all, Sir, then may I resume attending to the fire in the housekeeper’s quarters?”

“Yes, carry on, Chives.”

The Fly

‘What’s that?’

Michelle sounded excited. Strange, she’d taken her medication - an opium derivative mixed with high-grade ectoplasm.

‘Stephen, look.’

I swiveled my head one-eighty, and toggled the retina on my tungsten eyeball. The pupil focused on the window pane.

Window pane?

Read: Eco-planetarium enclosure. Earth year 8011.

Michelle and I were the lone survivors of WW7. We were humanized invertebrates, in old-fashioned terminology. Outside, galactic entities raged an unceasing assault on our fortress.

Entities?

Read: alien life forms – parasitic zealots.

Amos, my in-built computer, had calculated that we had four minutes to live – give or take a micro-second – unless…

…There wasn’t an option.

Until my lens zoomed in.

I fed the picture into Amos’ data bank for analysis. It took a mind-boggling three minutes five seconds – Amos could evaluate whole planetary systems in that time.

‘It’s a fly,’ I said.

It’s a fly!

Michelle turned around. She moved across and hugged me. ‘Oh, Stephen.’

I sucked in a breath. ‘Our first.’

The slit in her face opened. Out poured more – battalion after battalion.

Our army.

Genetically designed to feed on the aliens.

‘Open the window,’ I said.

How strict is the 200 words??? i've just written about 300 i think its good, but if i need to i will try to whittle...

I can't count for toffee, Sucatraps, and seeing as it's August, I won't be bothering to count, either. On the other hand, I would never discourage whittling. Follow your muse, and if that gets nowhere, follow your fly, and we'll all enjoy the result. And thanks Islander, Ron and Stephenterry for getting us off to a darn crackin good start!

ADULT CONTENT ;) ooooo sexy sexy fly in a stocking....

Oh God. Bugs - no. I shut the window tight and watch him knock himself relentlessly into the window pane.

I wash my hands vigorously in the sink and return to see him still there trying to concoct a way into my sterile home. He flies off and I relax for a moment until I think of the bathroom window upstairs. Oh shit.

I dash up the steps by threes and through the bathroom doorway. He found it before I - sneaky fly. I close the bathroom door and lock him in so he can't contaminate all my house. His wings buzz as I duck and weave to prevent contact.

I open the cupboard under the sink and yank out the glass cleaner. I aim in his direction and pump the trigger seven times. I tilt my head and listen for his dirty wings - nothing.

He's on the ground, soaking wet on his back with his tiny legs motoring for solid ground. He flips and works his get away. I can't let him live, not a fly.

I return to the cupboard and take out all the chemicals I find. I grab the bucket from the linen closet and dump in the chemicals. Ammonia, glass cleaner, disinfectant - tons, bleach - wait. Oh shit.

well it's over 200 words, but they were so necessary I couldn't help myself!

Monday brought the first.

On Tuesday, I’d noticed several, clustered on the frame, occasionally fizzing in crazy arcs.

By Wednesday, a can of Nippon had decorated the glass with misty, sprayed-on snowflakes, each surrounding tiny, see-through silhouettes. A collection of little black corpses littered the sill.

Thursday saw reinforcements, tens of them to start with, and as the heat of the outside day intensified through the pane their number grew, some lazily swaggering through a chemical residue, many more crawling and circling and urgently pinging off the glass, collectively droning their bloated, black chorus, buzz-plink, buzz-plink.

The fact that I hadn’t dug deep enough, hadn’t buried her further under the dry, parched earth, was something I’d need to address.

The fly landed on the window pane,

The car was fast, so it left a stain,

Its blood was red, I thought how strange,

I do not think he’ll fly again.

The wipers I did flick the switch,

Their steady arc did spread the ich,

I sprayed the foam, I could see nicht,

And that is when I hit the ditch.

The car it did fly through the air,

It gave me such a mighty scare,

It first was here, and then was there,

It landed then, I know not where.

The mark I left was much the same,

The opposing side received my stain,

Bits of red, flecked pink with brain,

I do not think I’ll drive again.

I think I know how that poor fly felt,

With the hand, that fate had dealt,

He’d wish the glass, he did not pelt,

And I would wish I’d worn my belt.

(Dedicated to Tenacityflux, who planted the seed in my head!)

Denver looked up from over his book and watched the fly walk across the base of the window.

"Why doesn't it fly?" he wondered aloud. "It has wings, it should use them. What a waste."

He returned to the book, a Scottish novel about a boy who devises ways of killing wasps. He glanced at his book, glanced at the fly, then allowed the cogs in his head to turn and click into place.

The fly was preparing its wings for take off when 'The Wasp Factory' crashed down, transforming it from an insect into a black smudge on the sill.

Denver wiped thefly remnants off of his book with a tissue then sat back down to read the final few chapters.

"What a waste."

I awoke in a fit of nerves and confusion. My head was reeling and my stomach squirming. I felt my t-shirt sticking to my back. That nightmare. The same one I’ve been having for years was worse than it’s ever been. Eager to fall back into reality, I leant out of bed and switched on my lamp. I lay back onto the pillows and breathed deeply.

A sudden movement caught my eye and I found my self staring at a fly on my window. Disgusting insects, flies. Filthy little beings which leave nothing but germs behind. I was slowly reaching for a book to throw at it when I found myself stalling.

This fly, not unlike me, was trapped. Stuck on the inside looking out at what could be. What should be. There was a world out there to explore and here we were, looking out at it, wishing we could do something about it. But resources were limited. Responsibilities forbade it.
My barrier was my life. This Flies barrier was a window. Who was I to end its life? To crush those hopes and dreams it may have?

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous’ I laughed at my self. This fly was nothing but a mindless piece of filth. I reached for the book and lobbed it at the window. When it fell to the floor, the fly was gone.

I hope 229 words isnt too much?

I am a cat, so please don't expect me to leave that fly there.
I am a bird, I'll race you.
I am a dog, flies make me itch I'll beat you both.
I am a fly, come and get me fools.
Dog chases Cat chases Bird chases Fly laughs his head off as
Dog catches Cat catches Bird catches window and crack!

The movement of the fly caught my attention and I turned to the window. The hidden sun cast warm light on the streets below; night was near. The fly buzzed and crawled up the glass before casting away on the wind. My gaze followed and for a moment I envied his freedom to roam. But really, desiring the precarious and unthinking life of an insect was a betrayal of being human. With a rueful smile I returned to my own measure of humanity, the sluggish baby in my arms.

AUGUST CLOUDER'S CHOICE COMPETITION RESULTS

Thanks, John, I enjoyed that. Well done Sucatraps.