Trapped and Bugged

It was a battle of epic proportions, reminiscent of the old man versus the fish and Captain Ahab versus Moby Dick. One small difference, however, was this: there was no fish. There was just a fly. And while I am no old man, his principles of hard work and not taking the easy way out aligned with my own. This fly was not leaving my home. It was trapped and I was bugged. 

It all began in my parents’ room as the small beast buzzed past each of our heads, its tiny wings beating together to alert us of its presence. I grabbed a magazine to swat the fly lest it continue to bother us. The fly evaded my clumsy swipes and quickly left the room disappearing from my view. I thought that that was the end of it. It was not. The winged creature reappeared in my own room determined to bug me further. 

The fly alighted, for the first time that I saw, on my window blinds. In its position, it was safe from my magazine vengeance, but not from me. I whipped my blinds close and the small beast buzzed against the wooden slates, unable to get out. I gave the blinds a few whacks and the buzzing stopped. I vainly thought that that was the end of it. Again it was not. I reopened my blinds and the winged creature flew out with surprising speed away from my window and out of my room.

I went in pursuit and found the buzzing critter hovering by the door to the garage, assuredly the place where it had entered. The fly was trying to flee its impending doom, but I would not fold to its hopes for surrender after it had already disturbed our peace. It was a challenge now. I would not take the easy way out. I was in pursuit of my own Moby Dick. I swiped at the tiny beast until it fled back to my own room. I knew that that was not the end of it.

If the fly was the fish I was in pursuit of, it was only then that I hooked it. My blinds were opened so I could better find the winged creature, my fan was turned off so I could hear its beating wings, and my door was closed. We were both trapped and I was still bugged and determined. I swiped the magazine through the air when I caught a glimpse or heard its buzz come near but all in vain. I needed the brute to land. At first, I saw none of its landings. Every time I lost the visual, the buzzing ceased and I knew the bug had stopped to sit and to rest, but I could not find it.  Slowly, however, my fly-tracking skills increased and I saw its every motion. After nearly 20 minutes, I knew that the end was coming. It was. 

The small, buzzing beast alighted three times in front of my eyes before it met its end. Twice it landed on a soft surface and sank into my bed and pillow to avoid the fatal blow of the magazine. The third time, though, it sat on my wall in the top corner of my room. That was the end of the poor creature's final flight. I whispered my congratulations on a battle well fought and with a small hop smacked the magazine onto the fly and wall. I disposed of the small and ill-starred mortal being in my trash can. My boat had returned to shore as it were and I joined my family for dinner.