Flies

Awareness came in a pulsating, panicky way. A charge energized him, vaulting him forward. He slammed against something hard, recovered, flew briefly, slammed into something again, then again and again and again. He buzzed crazily, blindly in the dark until suddenly there was nothing to crash into, and in a flash of white light he could see.

His heartbeat steadied. He soared past the large metal trash bin that had been his birthplace into the great wide open.

He worked hard using his short supporting back wings -- halteres -- to gain balance. The world around him was amazing and vast, filled with vivid colors and a multitude of shapes.

Ahead he saw a yellow rose bush in full bloom. There was a carpet of grass below and an endless blue sky above. He landed on a leaf of the rose bush, stopped his wings, and caught his breath.

The leaf was damp and he lowered his tongue-like ovipositor and lapped up some of the liquid. It soothed him. Below, surrounding the gnarled trunk of the bush, was a large puddle of brown water. Dropping beside it, he drank heartily. It was a wonderful liquid, cool, clean and refreshing.

He lifted his head. His reflection in the water stared back at him: huge, red-brown eyes, a checkerboard of individual facets; six spindly legs; two large transparent wings supported below by the two smaller halteres; a shiny green thorax and a copper abdomen; all but the wings covered with various sized stiff hairs, shorter on the head and legs, longer on the body.

He was Musca domestica, a housefly.

Several like-looking creatures zoomed past.

He rose off the dirt by the puddle and followed. They sailed across yards, over bushes and walls, then dropped down. It was fun, soaring along like this. The young fly stopped and landed on a high wooden fence and watched.

A large dog, a Great Dane, stood off in the yard, kicking his hind legs out. It was full grown, skin and bones, each separate rib visible under his mottled gray skin. Its little pink rump, raised to the sky, twitched.

The other flies had settled down onto the grass. They didn't fear the dog. The young fly approached.

It was a thing of beauty and smelled so delectable the young fly's mouth watered. More than eight inches long and over an inch thick, curled slightly, it was brown-black and glistening in the afternoon sun. The young fly descended. The other flies took no special notice of him as they gorged themselves. There was plenty to go around. Traction was easy on the sticky surface. The young fly imitated the others, dropping his ovipositor, lapping the tasty food.

"This is good. This is very good," remarked one of the flies, mouth stuffed.

"Ha! Fresh from the oven," joked the largest of the group.

Suddenly, there was a voice from overhead.

"Hey, fellow flies! Take heed. Remove yourselves from there!"

The flies looked up. The voice belonged to a lone fly who had attached himself to the nearby wood fence.

"Don't eat the foul waste of other creatures," he continued. "Respect yourselves. The future of flies!"

"Oh, Michael, buzz off!" called the large fly, rolling his eyes. "Ha!"

"Yeah, take your nonsense out of here, Michael," added another.

"Who is that?" the young fly asked.

"Michael," answered the fly closest to him. "He's crazy. A cultist. The New Way. Believes in all sorts of ridiculous things. Don't eat defecation, love your mate, care about your maggots, evolve the species. Ever heard such silliness?"

"Flies will only get the respect they earn, " the fly named Michael said.

The young fly looked at this rebel who looked back. He was a handsome fly, and there was something different and interesting about him. But the young fly didn't understand what he was talking about and kept eating. His new companions dismissed Michael, continuing to feast.

"You, young fly," Michael called to him. "Come with me. Don't start your life this way, besmirched in excrement!"

"Get out of here, Michael," retorted the biggest fly. "Leave our young friend alone. Ha! We found him first."

The young fly looked back once more at Michael and met his eyes. Michael stared at him a moment, waited, then shook his head with disappointment and flew off.

"Moron," said the biggest fly with disgust, returning to the banquet.

"That M-M-Michael can fly, though," said one of the others, a small scraggily fly. "He's the f-f-fastest fly I've ever seen. And he saves l-l-lives."

"His so-called Rescue Force?" said the biggest fly disdainfully. "Ha! It's absurd. Saving flies from humans! Whoever heard of such a ridiculous thing? Everyone knows it's every fly for himself."

"You were smart to stay with us," said one of the others. "We have fun, cook up all sorts of mischief. We do as we please."

"It's true, kid," said another. "Hey, what's your name, anyway?"

"Name?" the young fly asked.

"Yeah, name. Who the Great Fly are you?"

"I--I don't know."

"He's a newborn," said the biggest fly. "He doesn't have one yet. Ha! Welcome to life, kid."