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Dead Flies and a Little Folly

"Missed." I swing around holding the pink fly swatter out like a machete, looking around the small kitchen, trying to spot the last fly that was evading me. This is a daily hunt thanks to the cow pasture next door.

"There's fly." My two year old points a chubby finger. I do a quick scan and see the beady eyed monster, resting smugly on the kitchen table. Whop! I got the last fly. "Thanks, baby boy!" I say, grabbing a wipe to clean up the fly guts. He goes back to munching on his cucumbers and peanut butter toast.

Stupid flies. Sticky traps were up, trashcans were sealed, and at least five fly swatters were stowed around the house, but every day the flies invade. I lean back on the counter and scroll through Instagram. Opinions buzzing like the flies. I shake my head, and start typing too. I'm getting mad now, so mad, I don't even notice the buzzing in my ear, and subconsciously wave my hand at it, but the little guy is persistent, and rams into my ear again, bumping around for a while this time. "Stupid fly!" I burst, grabbing up the swatter again. "I thought I got the last one."

"Where fly?" My son looks around with me.

I've set my jaw, determined to bring this fly to an end.

"There's fly!" He clapped.

I hear it first, then it is hovering six inches from my face. I freeze--daring the fly to make a move. My two year old, big eyed and silent behind me, leans in to see what will happen.

The fly spirals, taking its time. Then it comes to rest on the handle of the fly swatter--right above my fist. The safest and most annoying place it could've landed. I narrow my eyes, and I'm sure that it grinned before it took off again.

Ecclesiastes Chapter 10

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