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vichy
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the rugby-shirt wearing bumblebee who stung the sudanese refugee on the hand, fulfilling decades old prophecy, buzzed at a respectful volume post-sting, and landed exhausted on a nearby coneflower, attempting and succeeding to appear inconspicuous.
death had come to his door and was already banging the dragonfly knocker against the white painted wood of his soul. the bee's heart was heavy with grief, a burden he carried like one trying support a burden for an incredible distance, yet he knew he would never make it. either he would drop it or it would break his back.
he knew what his venom would accomplish upon the blind man, and more importantly to the bridging of worlds. and the weakness he felt was just recompense for the suffering he inflicted. he was willing to give his life for the revolution that would not be televised, for the lullabyes that would sing the solemn birds asleep as they roosted near heaven.
and so when proina appeared unexpected, the bee was already dead. his body dropped to the dormant grass without a sound unless ants had ears. yet, his spirit was now a firefly in the garden of st. francis, and the maris den cieans took turns using him as a ring on their fingers.
but this jewel was eternal.
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020814
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