Flypaper | Mx. Logan Cody

Flypaper

Mx. Logan Cody

She looked at the flypaper and thought of crucifixion.

The thin strip of translucent plastic glistened slightly in the early morning light, slats of sun coming in sideways. The bigger of the two was caught by four of its six feet – evidently trapped on landing. The smaller of the two, so much smaller, probably only a quarter of the other’s size, or less (?), was caught messily by its wing and right eye.

She knew the words she didn’t want to think before she thought them. “I wonder if that's its child?”.

They were still, mostly. But with a slight exhale the two flies lurched to movement, flapping, vibrating the three good wings between them.

And that’s how their day was spent. Trapped and dying, fluttering their wings occasionally, not doing much else. And her, trying not to look but looking, watching from her corner of the room. The space they shared.

The next morning the flies were dead. They looked similar to the alive flies, but now they were dead. The smaller one hung (now lifelessly) as it had the day before, but the larger one had evidently succeeded in getting one of its legs free and had died in a sort of lopsided way.

It wasn’t troubling, per se, in that, well, why should it have been troubling? Flies were flies. They brought disease and death of their own. So she had been told. Well, anyway, the point being that they were dead, and she wasn’t, and that was that. And it’s not like she was the one who put up the flypaper.

But, looking at their frozen, crucified bodies -

And that's how her days were spent. Trapped and dying. Fluttering her wings occasionally, not doing much else. Trying not to look but looking, watching from her corner of the room. The space they shared.