The world was calm; the scent of the Old Man's mush filled the air.
The little fly couldn't resist. Buzz. His tiny wings propelled toward the soupy breakfast; guided by instinct.
Boink! An invisible, netty trampoline caught him without rebound. He swayed in the breeze, suspended in air, held by a circular ghost.
Buzz: vibrations of desperation. The more he resisted, the more entangled in the circle he became.
Buzz. Buzz.
Then, two vibrations in return. Footsteps?
three...four...five... eight footsteps.
Uh-oh.
The spider advanced; guided by instinct.
The little fly winced; awaiting his fate.
He, too, would now become mush.
About the Creator
Gina C.
Poet | Author | Architect of Worlds
Sowing stories rooted in culture, origin, metamorphosis, resilience, language & love via fantasy, myth, magical realism & botanical prose
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A Badge in the Smoke !
Dear Diary, 👋 Bye Bye David! Those were the last words Lena wrote before sliding the diary across the counter to the officials. She’d pressed the pen hard on that final line, then shut the book as if closing a door. She’d met David in the Hyatt Regency lobby during his medical conference. She was wiping the marble floor, eyes down, feeling the familiar ache of being alone in a place full of travelers. He’d asked for directions to the elevator, lingered, asked her name. Over the next three days they met in quiet corners — near the potted palms, at the service elevator — talking in low voices. He was polite, careful, always checking his watch. She felt seen, and also like she was living in the space between his words. When he left, he promised to write. They did, for a while, but the letters thinned out. Then ICE came to the hotel. Lena — whose real name was Christina Perraira — was taken across the border to Mexico. Rumors followed her: she’d escaped, she’d been taken by a cartel, a gang leader had offered her protection in exchange for favors, and she’d ended up in a trafficking case. No one could say which was true. Years passed. Christina lived under a new name, Ms. Alt, raising a child on her own. She never sent David an address. She kept the diary as proof that she had told him not to come. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone around her acted as if they knew it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained the rule; they just honored it. David never came. *Twenty-three years later, a different envelope arrived at Christina’s door.* Inside was not a letter, but a photocopy of David’s conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: “Lena: if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.” Below that, a second line in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” Christina stared at the badge. No return address, no signature. Just the badge, the two lines, and the faint imprint of a hotel key card tucked beneath it. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone who knew Lena—later Christina, later Ms. Alt—acted as if they understood it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained it; they just honored it. Christina settled in a small town across the border, working as a caregiver at St. Clare’s senior home. Her final abode was a modest room above the kitchen, with a window that looked onto the courtyard and a thin mattress she’d learned to make quickly between shifts. She kept Lena’s diary tucked under the mattress, the last page still reading “👋 bye bye David!” One rainy Thursday a new resident was admitted for terminal care: David. The name caught her breath, but she didn’t say anything. His file listed no family, only a contact number that went to voicemail. She was assigned to his floor. He was frail, his voice softer than she remembered, and he wore the same habit of checking his watch even though time meant little now. She bathed him, brought him tea, sat with him when the pain spiked. He never asked her name; she never offered it. On his third night, he slipped a folded paper into her palm while she adjusted his blanket. It was a photocopy of his old conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: _“Lena — if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.”Below that, in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” She recognized the handwriting instantly. The paper also had a hotel key card tucked inside. She stayed with him. He opened his eyes, looked at her face, and whispered, “Lena?” She nodded, tears slipping down. He reached for her hand; she held it. A few hours later, a kettle she’d left on the small kitchenette boiled dry, the coil overheated, and a small fire started. The smoke alarm wailed. Staff rushed in, got David out, but Christina went back for the diary under her mattress. The room filled with smoke before she could get out. They died the same night—David in the hallway on a gurney, Christina in her room above the kitchen. The diary was found charred at the edges, the final page still legible. The staff filed the incident, placed the diary in the home’s lost-and-found, and followed the rule without ever naming it: they didn’t try to trace who David had been to Lena/Christina. © conceptual right , March 30th, 2026 ✍️By Madhu Goteti P.S: A rose is a rose is a rose like a rule is a rule is a rule!
By Madhu Goteti about 20 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (29)
Amazing
Never thought I'd feel sorry for a fly! 😁
Such beautiful language. I love your descriptions of the web. Spiders fascinate me. There were studies I read about a while back that indicated their webs may also emit electricity that attracts certain charged insects. Such amazing little creatures. Horrifying from the perspective of insects though.
It’s the old man’s fault! 🤣. Great story … Gina 😎🥰
This is awesome and so well-written! I always love your descriptions ❤️
I love the patterning - tough to do in so few words, but it is really effective
At least its innards will become mush. The outtards will remain as tombstone until someone gets the broom out & knocks that cobweb down.
You've got some brilliant descriptions here "invisible, netty trampoline" and "circular ghost" are my favorites. Great job with this one!
Was this just re-published somehow? Call me a stupid Boomer, but it showed up in my feed as new about an hour ago.
Your story telling skills is amazing. I love the Buzz sound. Really enjoyed reading it.
Great title, great micro story. I feel bad for this fly, but always swat the houseflys. :) Also, I just got a notification that you published this, yet I see older comments. So weird.
Awesome writing!
Awww, poor little fly! Said the spider before turning him into mush 🤣 I loved this so much!
Now I feel sorry for the fly. Lol. Great story, my friend.
"Come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly. Well done!
Fly, fly, fly 😊❤️
Okay, this one's a bit "mushy" for my taste. Too bad it wasn't a mosquito. Flies can be annoying, but skeeters push me right over the edge.
Oh no! Poor fly!
Excellent job
Oh, poor fly!! But spider gotta eat, lol. I love how your beautiful mind works, taking us to this every day occurrence but making it feel personal. Loved it, my friend :)
This was brilliant! Perfect for micro fiction. Poor little fly.
Such a beautifully vivid little story, Gina! You packed a lot into this in such a delicate way- the circle of life/instinct. I LOVE bugs- this was truly delightful.
I love this. Spider symbolism is a favorite of mine, and I like the double meanings of mush.
Good riddance to the fly! lol. This is great, Gina! Awesome work, as ever!
Ahhh. The circle! Well done. Love the effects! 🥰 (Now, I challenge you to write the same story from the Spiders perspective or the old man’s. Goodness, so many possibilities!)