The Fly

Comments (0) Flash Fiction

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Serenity reigned in Vincent and Jane’s room until the day that insect coughed.

With nowhere to go, Vincent and Jane, as they usually did, sat on opposite ends of the room staring at the playful light and shadows on the wall.

A stealthy fly attached itself to their window.  It made no sound— until the slightest resonance escaped its mouth. Vincent shifted his eyes from the wall the window.

“That fly coughed,” said Vincent.

“It certainly did not,” said Jane. “Flies do not cough.”

“This fly did.”

“No, it did not.”

“I’m telling you that it did. Just wait. It will cough again.”

They watched the fly on the window waiting for it to cough or not.

The fly rubbed his legs together and watched the two people watching him, waiting for him to cough. The fly felt a tickle in his throat. The tickle was nearly unbearable for the fly but he refused to cough. He was a fly and he would not give them the satisfaction.

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