🪰 Wings that Wander

A short story, by Casandra

The sky was wide open.

Miles and miles of it. Blue, breathless, buzzing.

It was April. Kansas warm days where spring is turning into summer.

A beautiful day to just be.

And yet—this fly, of all flies, chose to dive-bomb into your cheeseburger picnic, zip past your sweaty temple, and hover three centimeters from your eyeball as if you were the most fascinating thing in all creation.

Why?

Because humans smell like salt and stories.

And this fly—well, this one was hungry for both.

The Fly’s Day Begins

He woke up in the thick Kansas heat, wings twitching, antennae tasting the morning air.

It was the beginning of barbecue season.

The air was ripe with mustard, burnt hot dogs, and toddler tears. He knew just where to go: the lake.

His tiny stomach rumbled. He flitted past ducks, dust, and dew, drawn to the magnetic scent of ground beef.

He zeroed in.

There it was—perfection. A hamburger bun sweating under the sun. Toasted. Juicy. Unattended.

He dove. A quick snitch. Just one grain of sesame…

WHACK.

A hand. A human hand.

He dodged it mid-air, wings brushing death.

Did that stop him? Of course not. He came back for more. Risk was part of the recipe.

Then, suddenly, a shadow passed overhead. A roar. A machine.

A car.

Captured

He should’ve known better.

But the open door smelled like lotion, sugar, gasoline, and human stress. Irresistible.

He darted in. He didn’t know the door would close. He didn’t know they were leaving. Leaving him.

The hum of tires vibrated his wings. The air shifted—not natural wind, but a cold, sterile blast. Air conditioning.

He tumbled backward into the backseat, disoriented.

There sat a small human. Buckled in a plastic throne, cheeks full of jelly and mystery.

The fly, in all his glory, landed right on the baby’s nose.

The baby screamed.

The fly zipped off.

Trapped. Hungry. Confused. This was not the lake. Where was his hamburger?

He clung to the windshield for hours—days maybe. Time loses meaning when you’re watching the world blur by at 80 mph and all you want is a crumb of lunch meat.

Arrival

Then—freedom.

The back hatch lifted. Cold air slapped him in the thorax. He wobbled into the unfamiliar sky.

Dry. Thin. Still.

This wasn’t Texas.

He landed on a crooked wooden sign, squinting with all six eyes.

WELCOME TO WYOMING.

The air was alien. No humidity. No mosquitoes. The scent of lakeside fry oil and sweating beer cans lacked. The snow crunched below him like tiny knives. The sky was pale, like it hadn’t slept in months.

Flies weren’t made for GPS. They weren’t designed to navigate back.

They were made to survive.

So he did.

A New Life

The humans built a fire in a mountainside cabin. Their laughter was softer here. Quieter. More bundled.

He recognized one of them—the crying baby, now peaceful, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, holding… was it?

Yes. A hamburger.

Steam lifted from the bun like a whisper from home.

The fly, old instincts intact, buzzed closer. He landed lightly on the edge, tasting the familiar tang of ketchup and flame.

He’d made it.

Not to where he came from—but to where he was meant to be.

The Lesson

Maybe flies are like people. Maybe we’re all just zooming through airspace with no clue we’ve boarded the wrong car until it’s already miles away from what we knew.

Maybe home isn’t a place—it’s a meal. A moment. A child’s nose. A warm fire on cold ground.

And maybe survival is less about returning… and more about learning how to begin again.

Quote for readers:

“The world is wide, and so are the chances to start anew—even for a fly.”

Journal Prompt 🖋️

Have you ever found yourself somewhere unexpected, wondering how you got there? Did you adapt or try to return? What changed in you?

Challenge 🌿

Spend one day like the fly—curious, aware, unafraid of detours. Pay attention to the smells, the shifts, and what’s calling you forward. What tiny moment feels like home?

Always,

Casandra