Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Sam Douglas

There'll Always Be A Gnat

"Honey, telephone. It's Mr. Jameson."

He'd just gotten the lawn mower started after about 96 pulls on the cord, or at least five or six. "What's he want?" he asked his wife.

"I'm pretty sure you don't want me to ask the people who call you from the office what they want," she said.

"Yeah, you're right. But you don't have to be so bleeping smug about it. Besides, I might make an exception for Jameson."

"Doesn't he know it's your day off?"

"Yeah, otherwise he'd be bugging me in the office." He picked up the phone, "Hi, Paul. What's up?"

"I hate to bother you, Richard, but Mr. Matthews called and asked me about the Sinclair Project. I told him I'd call him back."

"Paul, I told you yesterday that if anybody asked about Sinclair to tell them it was on schedule and I'd take care of it when I get back."

"Yeah, I know you did, but I didn't know if that applied to Mr. Matthews or not."

"Yeah, Paul, it applies to anybody who asks about the Sinclair Project."

"Okay, I'll call him back and tell him that."

"Fine, Paul."

At least the mower started on the first pull this time. He hated summer, especially in the south, where he was now. It was too hot, too sticky, too sweaty. Sweat rolled down your back into your waistband. Sweat rolled down your face into your eyes. Sweat rolled down your whole body into your soul. He hated summer.

"Ouch!" A pebble sprang up from the lawn mower and hit his shin. "How'd that get past the guard?" he asked himself as he stared down at the tiny trickle of blood running down his leg. He hated mowing the lawn. The only thing he hated worse than summer was mowing the lawn in summer. In addition to being too hot and too sticky and too sweaty, it was too dusty and too painful. The mower blew the dirt and dust into your eyes and your mouth and your nose, and it blew the rocks and the sticks into your shins. He hated mowing the lawn in summer.

"Bzzzz." Smack. "Ouch!" His ears were ringing. A pesky gnat was buzzing around his head, around his ear. It was really annoying. To make it worse, when he tried to swat the gnat, he hit his own ear instead. That stung. And it started his ears ringing. He hated gnats. They drove you nuts, buzzing around your head and into your eyes and ears. They were downright annoying. The only thing he hated worse than mowing the lawn in summer was mowing the lawn in summer with gnats around. In addition to being too hot and too sticky and too sweaty and too dusty and too painful, it was downright annoying.

"Bzzzz." Smack. "Missed me," a tiny voice said right outside his ringing ear.

"What?" he said out loud, not expecting a reply.

"Missed me," said the tiny voice again.

"Who's that? Who said that?" he asked, spinning his head from side to side, looking for the source of the voice.

"Bzzzz. I did," the voice seemed to come from inside his ear now. Smack. "Missed me again. I'll bet your ear is really ringing now, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, it is. But where are you?"

"Right here. Bzzzz." A gnat buzzed right in front of his face, almost going up his nose, and nearly getting caught between his eyelids.

"You said that? But you're a gnat."

"Yeah, and you're a klutz. You missed me."

"Man, you shouldn't be out here buzzing around people's heads when they're mowing their lawns. You could get hurt."

"Yeah, maybe I could; but whose ear is ringing now?"

"Well, mine is. That's annoying, too, but you could be killed. I could kill you with a reflex action."

"I guess that depends on whose reflexes are faster. You could just end up with another ear ringing."

"But the tradeoff just isn't worth it, man. You've got too much to lose. The risk is too great, and you've got nothing to gain. Why do you want to do it, just to be annoying?"

"Well, you know, that's what gnats do," the gnat's voice ended on a rise, like he was going to say something else.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don't tell me you're going to bring up that sad old story about the scorpion and the frog."

"Well, yes, I was. Don't you think it's appropriate?"

"Yeah, I guess so; but it's still a sad old story."

"Well, yeah, but beyond this just being our nature, maybe I was put here to bring a little variety into your life. Maybe I'm here to enhance the challenge. I mean without me, how boring would it be pushing that mower back and forth for hours in the summer sun?"

"Yeah, I hate mowing my lawn in the summer. But I hate gnats buzzing around my head even more."

"You see, we add to the experience."

"Yeah, some experience. But you could still get killed. What about that?"

"Somebody would just replace me. There'll always be a gnat buzzing around your head."

"Honey, telephone again. Mr. Jameson again."

"Yeah, Paul, what is it now?"

"I just wanted you to know I called Mr. Matthews back and he said he'd talk to you later about the Sinclair Project. I didn't want you to worry about it."

"Fine, Paul, I really wasn't worried."

"Okay, good. Enjoy your day off."

And back to the lawn. "Bzzzz." Smack. Silence.

"Are you there? Where are you? Come on, man, that was just a reflex. I didn't mean anything by it. Where are you?" He looked around, up and down, tried to focus his eyes close to his body. He didn't see anything. He didn't hear anything either. He looked down at his hands, concentrating on the right hand that he'd just swatted at the gnat. There, about halfway up his lifeline, was a small, black smudge. He picked at it with the nail on his left index finger. It was little, but it was also gooey and sticky.

"Aw, man," he said, "Why didn't you listen to me? I really didn't want to hurt you. Look what you made me do." His eyes misted up and a depleting sense of futility came over him. "Aw, man," he said again.

"Honey, telephone again. Mr. Jameson again."

Copyright © 2004 Sam Douglas

About the Author
Sam Douglas is a retired military man, serving in Intelligence assignments all over the world, including Vietnam during the war. He has a BS from the University of Maryland and an MS from Webster University. He has been married for over 45 years and has two sons, one in Law Enforcement in the Baltimore area and the other a writer with a New York magazine. He now lives and writes in South Carolina. His works have appeared in a number of university, small press and online publications.