Blue-haired middle-aged lady with a tendency to say socially and politically incorrect things and to make inappropriate jokes. Awkward and (sort of) proud of it

Sep 15, 2016

A Transient Superpower: Catching Flies. Inspired by the Weekly Knob’s Fly Swatter Theme

Lovely piece of British artwork atop the public toilets at Majors Corner, Ipswich, Suffolk. The mad swatter of Suffolk? Photo credit Keith Evans via Wikimedia Commons

I’m still too cowardly to sign up and commit to actually writing a story on the theme of the week BEFORE it’s published to the world…

So here’s the story of my short time as a human Venus flytrap!

When I was waiting outside the band building in 9th grade, I suddenly developed a superpower, one that lasted maybe a couple of months and then dissipated, never to return. I could now swipe a fly out of the air and kill it in my hand. Whooosh! Fist closes, then… SQUAT! Shake/peel/shake, repeat. Did I say I was a bit of a gross tomboy? If I didn’t, you should be able to intuit this from the nature of my fly assassination practice. That morning, for about 15–20 minutes, I racked up an amazing total. I forget the exact number because, well, I’m over 50 now and that was back in the late 1970’s (maybe the flies got their revenge on my brain cells). I’m guessing it was around 20–25 flies, scattered in a black granular pile outside the locked glass door that held my marching xylophone, music books and such.

I was 14; my hormones had just kicked in, most unwelcome. Already suffering from an unfortunate case of acne, it began to go nuclear, with mountains like volcanoes popping up on the once calm seas of my skin. What’s more, I put on about 40 pounds between age 13 and 14. My hair got EVEN GREASIER than it had been before. If you read the Harry Potter books and remember Rowling’s description of the teenaged Severus Snape , well, that was (sort of) me on the distaff side. An insecure tomboy, horrified at the unfortunate changes my body was going through, who tried to make up for her lack of appeal to the opposite sex by seeking attention doing outlandish things like killing flies with hands alone.

Then I began thinking, just now, maybe it was the hormones. They drew the flies. Maybe I was literally drawing flies! Maybe they smelled my childbearing-age girl pheromones, and they were trying to mate with me! Luckily I didn’t think of it then. I might have encouraged them, gotten fly-impregnated and given birth to Vincent Price in “The Fly.” Help meeeeee! I fancy the flies thought this in their last seconds on Earth, and I also thought this as I lamented how off-putting I had become in my teenage agonies.

Help Meeeee!!! My whole teenage existence was one idiotic cry for help.

My super fly killing abilities vanished over the course of a couple months (or maybe I developed other interests but thankfully before someone nicknamed me Renfield ); the last time I remember catching a fly out of the air was about two months later on a sunny day, as I returned home and was buzzed by the unfortunate fellow in the living room of my home. We kept fly swatters there, but I didn’t bother with them; after all, I was a super-heroine! Fly Assassin! Well, used to be. For two months. Now I just remember and write about it. Oh yes, I have a fly swatter within arm’s reach right now. Almost.