‘I’m really ready for this!’ Birt the Fly donned his protective vest. ‘Those rockets are going to fly me right up to the moon!’ He pointed to his rocket pack leaning against the wall. ‘There I can gorge myself on all that rubbish. Think of it! Centuries of waste rotting, and all that lovely grub just waiting for me…’
‘I’m not entirely sure that orb is made of human rubbish, Birt.’ Elder-father Jim said, his voice hushed with concern. The idea of a fly being rocketed to the moon sounded very dangerous to him, he could foresee all sorts of dangers, not least being killed.
‘I am going.’ Said Birt, with the determination only youth can provide. ‘Just imagine, an endless supply of rubbish to munch on, then, I can organise day trips and start making real money!’ Birt smiled, thinking of all that juicy waste just lying there, ready to be eaten – burgers, kebabs, rotting cabbage – all amassed in neat little piles. It would be a smorgasbord of litter, all ripening to perfection.
‘I don’t think its trash they’re taking up there, Birt…’
‘What else could it be?’ Interceded Birt, ‘We all know it’s a refuge for refuse. It’s taught at fly schools and everything!’
Elder-Father Jim realised there was no dissuading Birt; the petulance of youth had won again. Jim let his head fall and his wings grow weak; he even buckled at his knees – all six of them. Slowly his head lifted, and his five eyes fixed on Birt. ‘You are a fool, then, Birt. You are doomed to a fiery death. Is nothing I can say to deter you?’ Silence.
‘I cannot watch this folly, Birt. You are bewitched with an illusion of glory. You will be thrown down! I cannot watch, not one of my 751 children meeting such an end. Goodbye, Birt, and die you well, for die you will!’
With that, Elder-Father Jim flue off, catching a tailwind as he left. He had caught the whiff of carrion on the breeze and wanted to investigate and possibly dine. He had given up his endeavour to change Birts mind. Let him fry! Jim fumed, I’ve got another 750 other siblings to worry about!
With that, Jim flew into a roadside bin and found a juicy, rotting meat patty which he tucked into with all the gusto of an angry fly.
Meanwhile, back at Fly-Base Central, Birt had one of his friends help him on with his rocket pack. It was night, and a full moon had risen, bathing the base in creamy moon-lit rays that spread a mystical luminosity over the overarching structure. Crowds had gathered. A mass of flapping wings deafened everyone around as they chatted and whooped in unison. The crowd hushed when Birt stepped onto the runway, his rocket pack catching the rays of the moon as he walked.
Someone shouted ‘Speech!’ The cry was taken up by the fly world, building to a rebellious crescendo. Birt was not an orator, not by any stretch of his imagination, but he realised he needed to say something, something bold, something imaginative, something captivating. He turned around to the crowd, their raised eyes staring at him, then he lifted himself on his back four legs, lifting his front two and waved them to hush the crowd. The watchers hushed. A silence fell over the port as Birt cleared his throat.
‘I’m off then.’ he said, before lowering his front legs and galloping hell for leather down the runway.
Behind him, the stunned flies watched as he first flew toward a tree, then, catching an updraft, he heaved his body upwards. It was hard work, really hard yacka, his rocket pack was heavy, pulling him groundward, he flew as far as he could before engaging his rocket, then with a woosh and a flash and a boom (so some said), he was propelled upward into the night sky.
Birt knew little of the flight, save the whooshing of the wind in his scrawny hairs, that, and the crash as he hit something hard. All he remembered was falling and falling. He could see an incandescent light flick in and out of his sight, he must have flown into the moon. It wasn’t soft and sheathed in rubbish as he thought. It was hard, buzzing, with an inner light that glowed brightly. It was nothing like he had anticipated. If only he had worn a safety helmet.
Half dazed and stupefied he fluttered down to the ground, landing on the fragrant petals of a dandelion. He lay there, stunned, while a crowd gathered around him.
‘What’s it like?’ they demanded.
‘Well,’ stuttered Birt. ‘It’s hard, and it’s a lot closer than you think, and no rubbish. Just an angry buzz.’
© Tropical Writers Inc 2026