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| Image created in Ai by Helen |
It’s your roving reporter Henrietta Trowel from the Daily Trooper, bringing you an up to the minute account of the strange happenings in the usually tranquil village of Dunpharting.
Yesterday, this idyllic village basked in the sunshine, as people went about their daily business untroubled. Now they are gathered with me in main street, all eyes focused above. The cobalt sky is, as I speak, spattered with dark shapes that seem to be flying in a formation. The whirring beat of their wings fills our ears. What are these creatures? And where do they come from? I’ll see what I can find out.
“Excuse me madam. Can you tell me what’s happening here?”
“It’s them there things in the sky, that’s what’s ‘appening.”
“You know what they are?”
“Oh yes. Am I on the news?” (Pats hair, looks about and smiles.)
“Yes, Mrs…?
“Seeall. They’re ruddy great flies, that’s what they are. The size of rats. Flying rats, I tell you. Ooo, gives me the heebie jeepies. Imagine one of them landing on your cake. Look out, they’re coming down again!”
The people scatter like ants for cover, all except one brave man, who’s standing in the centre of the street. What’s he holding? I’ll get a closer look.
“Excuse me Sir, what’s that you’ve got.”
“This? It’s a giant fly swat. Made it meself, Banged it t’gether in the garage over there. Here they come!”
The atmosphere is tense as the flies zoom down towards the main street. People have pressed themselves up against the walls of the buildings. The shops have all shut their doors and pulled down their blinds. The whirring noise is almost deafening as the flies approach. I can seem them clearly now; black bodies the size of a small football; eyes, round bulbous, like jellies wobbling in their heads; long gangly legs that dangle from beneath. Are these a result of some bizarre experiment gone wrong?
Wait a minute, there is some movement in the crowd. Several women have dashed out, large cans in their hands. I can just make out the words ‘Wipe Out Fly Spray.’
“Take that you hairy bastards.”
The women have let loose with the insecticide, as the flies come in low. Oh dear, one lady has been knocked to the ground and the can grabbed off of her. The fly clutches it in its legs. Can these monsters think for themselves? The other women are racing back and forth like crazed things, spraying and screaming all at the same time. They’re herding the flies towards the man and his swatter. Look at him go. You’d think he was playing cricket for England. Wow that was a Flash shot if ever I saw one. The flies are bouncing off his swatter and rolling down the street. Now other men are dashing out with spades, shovels, anything large and heavy enough to squash the flies as they roll past.
You have to believe me readers when I tell you it is bloody battle field out here. The village folk worked together to defeat this enemy that invaded their space. The street is a mass of black goo and the air is now filled with the cheers of the crowd as they pat each other on the backs.
I’ll get one last word from the man with the swatter.
“Sir you handled that fly swatter with panache. How do you feel?”
“Ted’s me name and cricket’s me game. That’ll teach those flying buggers to come here.”
“Have you any idea where they came from or why they invaded your village?”
“We’ve no proof, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it had summit to do with that laboratory just a couple of miles away. I’ve heard they do strange things there.”
“Thank you and well done again.”
Dunpharting can now return to normal. Its quiet demeanour reigns again as once more it becomes the picturesque village that one expects from the English Countryside, because Dunpharting, there are no flies on you!
This is Henrietta Trowel signing off, until the next news breaking event.
© Helen A. Howell
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