Alternative Title: The Most Important Unrecorded Moment in History
The tiny housefly sits on the gnarled old kitchen table like a miniature Buddha positioned halfway between the tall plate of fresh pancakes and the wide, gaping bowl of ripe, red apples. The morning light filters down gently through the windows and softly caresses his almost transparent wings. His little black body, a miracle of evolution, sits as unthreateningly on the table as an infant sleeping in its crib. Compound eyes take in the view contemplatively; the seductive lure of the syrup drawing his gaze across the field of rough, hand-wrought wood. He is an innocent, simple minded bystander completely unaware of any impending danger as he sits serenely in this quaint little cottage on this warm spring day.
There is a girl looming over the table. She is young and prone to the maliciousness so common in her species. As she edges closer her shadow slowly eclipses the oblivious fly like a storm cloud overtaking the sun. Her hair is long and light blonde; almost white. It trails down her back and rests at her waist like Medusa's snakes waiting to strike. Her pale skin stands in sharp contrast to her bright yellow dress adorned with delicate pale blue flowers. To an onlooker she might appear as a harmless, happy child of six or seven; carefree and perhaps even likeable. Her eyes, however, betray her. There is a glint there, a scheming, devious glimmer that shines beneath the deep green depths. They cast an eerie glow over her features and stretch her lighthearted smile into an overdramatic smirk. This is no child, in reality, but a caricature of a child whose features contort in the morning's glow like a ventriloquist's dummy. A nightmare child with cursed emeralds for eyes; she is, in this moment, the embodiment of the kind of simple hatred that only the young know how to wield. A simple hatred that she aims with careful, practiced precision at the distracted, unfortunate fly.
Her left hand is gripping the edge of the wooden table tightly in eager anticipation. She is ready. Her heart hammers with excitement. Adrenaline shoots through her veins like electricity through a wire at four miles per second. Her eyes bug out grotesquely as she hones in on her prey. She draws her right arm back above her head. With tenacity, she grasps the flyswatter, its jagged, rusted wire handle digging into her porcelain palm. The white paint flakes off and falls to the floor as lackluster a veneer as the girl's sweet, innocent smile. She doesn't mind. In fact, she doesn't even seem to notice, so gripped is she by her primal desires. The red plastic swatter shines like a warning flare in the otherwise soothing country home. It is screaming a silent "Run!" that goes unnoticed in this peaceful setting. It begs the little Buddha to fly away; to flee from this place and from this demon-child bathed in the hatred of her people.
The fly seems to hear nothing but the droning sound of his own enlightened buzzing. He is content, happily meditating away his already miniscule lifespan. He has no urge to even move as the girl with the pale skin and glowing eyes prepares to descend upon her prey. He notices nothing but the overwhelming smell of pancakes and syrup. They are the bait in the trap and him the sacrificial pawn in the little girl's makeshift, boredom induced game. To her he is nothing more than Sunday morning entertainment.
The equation is simple. Let "F" equal the force of impact; the impending moment where potential energy becomes kinetic energy in a deadly red flash with the potential to snuff out an innocent life forever. "F" is the moment when the little insect sage will be forced to face the hollow eyes of Death Himself on this otherwise sunny, cheerful day in this beautifully lit kitchen. "F" is an earthquake with the potential to violently shake the antiquated wooden table and to; not ungracefully; overturn the carefully placed salt shaker, spilling unlucky little granules all over the checkered, green, rooster-adorned placemats, ruining a perfectly good breakfast.
The force of impact will be equal to the mass of the flyswatter times its acceleration. The flyswatter itself a monolithic meteor propelled by the fury of a little girl's forearm. It is a race of will and wit pitting the speed of a nobly buzzing housefly against the tenacity of an eager, self-righteous child driven by boredom to slaughter the friend of yesterday that she has tired of. Where once they frolicked merrily through the beds of flowers, they now stand poised for inevitable, senseless conflict. The seconds collide like a train wreck as the Universe holds its breath in astonishment. For a second, the Earth slows down and they both close their eyes in preparation for the resounding smack of impact. The second hand on the apple-shaped wall clock perched above the battlefield of the table grinds to a halt. Somewhere, far away, a nightmare stricken child screams in the dark. When the moment has passed all will resume, regardless of the outcome, as if nothing has occurred at all. The Universe will continue to expand, the Earth will continue to turn, time will tick by, the child will wake, and the deafening roar of collision will dissipate slowly into the sound of silence. This minute moment in time will be forgotten. For now, there is tension, a predator stalking prey, the result itself is irrelevant.