Hey now. Some flash fiction. Title is: Pesticide Story

I keep checking the fly paper.

The insects are triangulated along the amber curlicues, Raggedy Ann's death hair giving beige tints to sunbeams coming in the living room window. Reminds of motion picture film, though working different. You have to get right up to it and roll your eye balls along the sticky, pungent hoops. Somehow flies wind up on their back, in the adhesive primal honey toxin. Maybe it proves everything uses all it's strength trying to get comfortable. Or else it's misery, as happens to bugs. All kinds of flying insects are dead on the roll of film hanging from a curtain rod near the television. 

Now I'm finding these teensy people sticking to the fly paper. Often, they are still alive, and screaming their hearts out. People the size of house flies, pinioned in the sticky goo, with a pesticide. I think it takes longer for them to die than the bugs, because the poison is safe for humans. See how our humanity goes all to shit, some how. But you have to be greatly reduced in size. 


Now everything has gone too far. There is a dying unicorn sticking to the fly paper. It is also the size of a house fly. Didn't see it come in the house.

This woman keeps loitering on my front porch. Platinum blond. She comes up on the porch, stares inside the house, then goes out into the apple trees. I'm thinking about maybe going out there.