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Back when a few bees still buzzed from flower to flower and we still had good things to eat, a woman was walking home just before twilight. Though it was midsummer, it was cold enough that she could see her breath as she hurried along, and it was only by chance she noticed a bee lying on the sidewalk. She paused to look at it. It was on its side, and she wasn't sure if it was dead or not until she noticed a slight movement of wing, and another of leg.
She knelt down and scooped it up, placing it on a lush bed of Kleenex. She carried it home in her hand, one hand atop to give it some warmth. When she got home, she set it on the table and mixed a bit of sugar and water and offered the bee a droplet. Warmed but still weak, the bee crept forward and supped upon the sugary elixir. Soon, it was rejuvenated enough to crawl around at normal speed. The woman turned out the light and went to bed.
In the morning, she brought the bee outside and set it on a flower. It crawled inside, covered itself with a dusting of pollen, and flew off.
She thought no more of it until the next day when her garden was abuzz with bees, a sight she hadn't seen in years. Every day after that, as long as the flowers bloomed in her yard, bees populated every blossom, and yellow- and black-striped fuzzy bodies busied themselves in the breeze.
Her home became a marvel as the bee population continued to decline in the world. Though bees had become a rarity, the air around her house was a droning cloud, and people would gather and gaze in amazement. The one time a burglar attempted to steal from her home, he was stung until he ran away. But the bees never stung the woman, though they swarmed about her, and sometimes even on her, for she enjoyed their company and sang to them daily.
One spring day, when she was very old, the woman died. On that day, no bees buzzed in her garden. They all stood still on flower and tree and wall and roof, and the bombination disappeared as they mourned.
Yes, they mourned. Three days later, when the woman was buried, the bees swarmed the cemetery and built a hive upon her gravestone. It became the last known hive in the world, and through this miracle, the woman became known as the saint of bees.
![[Night Bee I - by Robert Spellman]](https://p2.dreamwidth.org/ea9f3811b924/2919457-980164/www.robertspellman.com/Images/naropa%202012/Night-Bee_1.jpg "[Night Bee I - by Robert Spellman]")
(Image is Night Bee I by Robert Spellman: Night Bees)
She knelt down and scooped it up, placing it on a lush bed of Kleenex. She carried it home in her hand, one hand atop to give it some warmth. When she got home, she set it on the table and mixed a bit of sugar and water and offered the bee a droplet. Warmed but still weak, the bee crept forward and supped upon the sugary elixir. Soon, it was rejuvenated enough to crawl around at normal speed. The woman turned out the light and went to bed.
In the morning, she brought the bee outside and set it on a flower. It crawled inside, covered itself with a dusting of pollen, and flew off.
She thought no more of it until the next day when her garden was abuzz with bees, a sight she hadn't seen in years. Every day after that, as long as the flowers bloomed in her yard, bees populated every blossom, and yellow- and black-striped fuzzy bodies busied themselves in the breeze.
Her home became a marvel as the bee population continued to decline in the world. Though bees had become a rarity, the air around her house was a droning cloud, and people would gather and gaze in amazement. The one time a burglar attempted to steal from her home, he was stung until he ran away. But the bees never stung the woman, though they swarmed about her, and sometimes even on her, for she enjoyed their company and sang to them daily.
One spring day, when she was very old, the woman died. On that day, no bees buzzed in her garden. They all stood still on flower and tree and wall and roof, and the bombination disappeared as they mourned.
Yes, they mourned. Three days later, when the woman was buried, the bees swarmed the cemetery and built a hive upon her gravestone. It became the last known hive in the world, and through this miracle, the woman became known as the saint of bees.
(Image is Night Bee I by Robert Spellman: Night Bees)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2014-08-21 02:06 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-08-21 02:34 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-08-21 04:38 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-08-21 11:47 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-08-21 06:49 pm (UTC)From:(I like, too, how it hints there's worse going on than just the bees dying... I wonder what else is happening.)
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Date: 2014-08-21 11:47 pm (UTC)From:I think it might be a fun exercise to write little stories/vignettes from this universe, wherever/whenever it might be. Kinda like The Martian Chronicles, but by no means nearly as awesome, because I ain't no Bradbury!
no subject
Date: 2014-08-22 10:13 pm (UTC)From: