The mystery of the missing farm fly wings

I was once a fly. Yes, that famous insect of the order of Diptera. That eeky and intrusive creature you run after with a swatter. Voted as one of the most disgusting insects on earth.

A long long time  ago, I was a fly in a play.  Which play was it?  Oh, never mind.  It was a forgettable one. But surely,  it was not about a scientist who went inside a capsule sort-of-thing and became a monstrous two-winged insect. I think the play was about a grandmother who had lots of animals on her farm. Sort of a female version of Old MacDonald. Maybe it was her wife or lover. Or was it  the old grandma who lived in a shoe?  Whatever.

Anyway, I was her fly. Why did I have to be a fly, you might wonder. There are a lot of animals in the world, right? Why a fly? What was our teacher thinking? Why did I even accept such unglamorous role?

Okay let me see. I was just eight back then and kids at that time were taught not to question grown-ups who considered flies as farm animals. Neither did my mother. It  didn´t occur to her that it was her parental obligation to be bothered by the thought that her child was cast as a hideous insect in a play full of lovable farm creatures. I was expecting her to storm my teacher´s office, wring her neck and demand a credible explanation. What in the world was  a fly  doing at Mrs. Donald´s farm?

It turned out that my mother had other things in mind. If her son had to be a fly, he would be the cleanest fly ever. She bought me a neat pair of black tights and a plain body hugging black shirt. For my wings, she hired somebody to sew them. Not ordinary-looking wings, mind you. She saw to it that they would look like real fly wings with thick black wires forming the shape of the wing pattern and transparent plastic with thin black strings intricately sewn in a zigzag fashion for the wing cells. It was awesome. I was the fly with cool wings.

As I said, the play was yawn-worthy. I can´t even remember how it went. Did we sing? Or dance? Did I have speaking lines? Or did I get swatted halfway through the play? Not sure. But I knew that my mother was very pleased by my performance. Until she saw that something was missing.

“Where are your wings?” My mother was eyeing me suspiciously sounding like a real mother bird shocked to find out that her baby bird´s wings had disappeared and that her offspring was totally clueless about it. I heard her all right but I didn´t dare reply nor wait for her to repeat her intimidatingly unanswered inquiry as I immediately dashed back  to the auditorium. Back then, I was not supposed to curse. So I just swallowed my saliva that was as thick as a yarn ball and prayed to God that nobody had taken interest in my wings. Where did I leave them after our performance? I nagged myself. It was a blur. Like in a film where the character is totally wasted and wakes up in a total stranger´s bed, completely spaced out. I could have absentmindedly dropped my wings somewhere. Perhaps, somebody might have nicked them. After all, they were nice wings.

Expectedly, my mother didn’t waste time giving me an earful as soon as we got home. Like I said, I was brought up not to answer back at a furious parent nagging me about lost wings. Deep inside though, I was fighting the urge to ask what the fuss was all about. Those were just wings! I could still be a normal person without them, right? Like, I still have my legs, haven´t I?  I didn’t dare answer back of course. I shut my mouth that not a single fly could enter.

The next day, I asked my classmates about the lost wings. Nobody saw them except one: the cow. From the play, that is. My heart jumped for joy. Finally, I would be reunited with my wings and would be able to fly again.

But the cow turned out to be a shrewd one. Dreadfully wicked! Exceptionally heartless. A shameless devil that smelled of dung! “Your wings are mine now! Finders keepers!” Finders keepers my ass. I didn’t say that, of course. Everyday, I would bug the cow to give me back my wings. And everyday, he would tell me the wings now belonged to him. I reasoned out. It was okay to reason out with somebody your age, especially with someone who stole your wings. I bargained. I negotiated. I begged. I threatened. But the cow proved to be a real pain. Such a stubborn schmuck, this fucking cow. On second thought however, what if this scumbag was just pulling my leg? Just his way of getting on my nerves. Maybe he didn’t have my wings after all. But that was beside the point.

One day, he offered another revelation which eventually dashed my hopes of finally getting my wings back. “You can have your wings but you can no longer fly in them. I undid the strings and ripped the plastic. And oh, I used the strings to tie my shoes.” The cow said with a sinister smile. I wanted to see the strings, I demanded. He refused. I stared at him contemptuously,  smelling blood. I studied the cow wondering to myself how I could turn him into a can of corned beef.

I told my mother about it and she too couldn´t believe such an evil cow could exist in this world. She told me to forget all about my wings and move on. Soon, the fucking cow would be in an avatar, she consoled me; chopped and ready to be served on a beautiful plate with sauce and spices. I smiled at the sordid thought. “Who needs a pair of plastic wings?” Certainly not me. I wouldn´t be a fly in the future play anyway.

Definitely, not a cow.