The Great Fly Panic of Elm Street

Elara prided herself on her zen-like composure, a woman impervious to minor annoyances. That was, until Tuesday afternoon. A housefly, an insignificant speck no larger than a rogue poppy seed, dared to land on her forearm during her afternoon meditation. The world, as Elara knew it, imploded.

Her eyes, which moments before had been serenely contemplating the infinite, snapped open with the terror of a badger realizing it's locked in a pantry. A guttural shriek, a sound usually reserved for medieval torture chambers or discovering a spider the size of a dinner plate, ripped from her throat. 'It's on me! Get it off! Is it... is it *infectious*?! Do I have to amputate?!'

She launched herself from her carefully aligned lotus position, a blur of flailing limbs and frantic yelps. She sprinted through the living room, vaulting over the ottoman, then slid across the polished floor, arms windmilling like a particularly desperate scarecrow. Her husband, Arthur, appeared from the kitchen, calmly stirring his chai. 'Darling? Are you attempting to outrun a rogue sock again?'

Elara finally skidded to a halt by the window, panting, clutching her forearm as if it had just been grazed by a laser beam. The offending fly, long since departed, was likely off recounting its harrowing near-death experience to its tiny, winged brethren. Elara dramatically collapsed onto the sofa. 'I think... I think I need a full hazmat suit. And possibly a week in a silent retreat. I felt its tiny, alien legs, Arthur. Its *alien* legs!'

Arthur simply sighed, taking a deliberate sip of his chai. 'It was a fly, Elara. A very, very small fly.'

Elara shuddered dramatically. 'Exactly. Smallest assassins are always the deadliest.'