X pulled a stool out into the garden. It was a beautiful day, the kind that usually warrants a description; the flowers were in bloom and the birds were singing...but maybe you'd get a better one from one of those children's books... It was getting hot, though. The afternoon sun beat down on X's shoulders like an unforgiving stare, but maybe X deserved that. Was it guilt, or shame? It was sometimes so hard to tell between the two.
There was a bee by the honeysuckle that grew along the trellis that lead up to the window. It flew around in circles, wings all a quiver. X knew that bees are benevolent creatures. They pollinate plants and flowers so that we may reap the benefits of fruits and crops. They make honey, which X was actually quite fond of! But today something about the little insect repulsed X. Today, it lost any semblance of benevolence. It could have been a housefly, or a disgusting cockroach, for all X was concerned. A pest which deserved to be killed, crushed, dashed or pulled to bits by some particularly horrid child. X watched as the bee circled the trellis, at last alighting on one of the flowers, small, red. Barely a flower, in fact, as much as it was a bud.
It is often said, X didn't quite know by whom, that it is those flowers, not quite buds but not yet in bloom that possessed the sweetest honey, and apparently the bee must have known this, because though the opening of the flower resisted it, it pushed and strained with convicted fury. Those repellant legs, skittering, wriggling...like so many disgusting claws upon flesh. The loud buzz of wing against petal, organism against organism. Bravely, the flower withstood the onslaught...but what else could the flower have done really? What should a flower do, when it was created for the very purpose of being violated day after day by an army of brazen and insensitive bees? Or was it.
There were birds around. Sparrows, X thought. Or maybe blackbirds. Chirping and calling and singing. And suddenly, like the bee, even their songs too became repulsive. Still the bee strained against the puckered lip of the half-closed flower. Still it pushed and pushed its way to the beckoning honey. X longed for one of the birds to swoop down, to take the bee firmly within its unforgiving beak and dash it against the bark of a tree to remove its sting. What is a bee without its sting, X wondered. If we take away the sting, they loose their power, they loose their intimidation, they loose everything it means to be a bee. But none of the birds would come. They would only sing.
X can still remember the moment of actual penetration. The moment when the bee, straining with all its might, with its repellant legs and buzzing wings, broke through the natural defense of the flower. The moment the petals tore, staining the bee with its scarlet sap. The moment the bee dug its way to the sweet spot, stealing the honey and then flying away. X can still remember the flower, hanging from the trellis, petals torn and bleeding. One organism violating the body of another. X remembers plucking the flower and returning to the stool to sit. X wonders sometimes; why hadn't X simply walked up to the flower and shaken away the offending insect. Perhaps it was voyeurism. The act of watching something so offensive being commited upon something else. But eitherway, X wasn't in any condition to think that morning. Or at least X didn't think...
So all that morning I sat on my stool, and watched as the bees raped the daffodils, and the sparrows sang their approval.
There was a bee by the honeysuckle that grew along the trellis that lead up to the window. It flew around in circles, wings all a quiver. X knew that bees are benevolent creatures. They pollinate plants and flowers so that we may reap the benefits of fruits and crops. They make honey, which X was actually quite fond of! But today something about the little insect repulsed X. Today, it lost any semblance of benevolence. It could have been a housefly, or a disgusting cockroach, for all X was concerned. A pest which deserved to be killed, crushed, dashed or pulled to bits by some particularly horrid child. X watched as the bee circled the trellis, at last alighting on one of the flowers, small, red. Barely a flower, in fact, as much as it was a bud.
It is often said, X didn't quite know by whom, that it is those flowers, not quite buds but not yet in bloom that possessed the sweetest honey, and apparently the bee must have known this, because though the opening of the flower resisted it, it pushed and strained with convicted fury. Those repellant legs, skittering, wriggling...like so many disgusting claws upon flesh. The loud buzz of wing against petal, organism against organism. Bravely, the flower withstood the onslaught...but what else could the flower have done really? What should a flower do, when it was created for the very purpose of being violated day after day by an army of brazen and insensitive bees? Or was it.
There were birds around. Sparrows, X thought. Or maybe blackbirds. Chirping and calling and singing. And suddenly, like the bee, even their songs too became repulsive. Still the bee strained against the puckered lip of the half-closed flower. Still it pushed and pushed its way to the beckoning honey. X longed for one of the birds to swoop down, to take the bee firmly within its unforgiving beak and dash it against the bark of a tree to remove its sting. What is a bee without its sting, X wondered. If we take away the sting, they loose their power, they loose their intimidation, they loose everything it means to be a bee. But none of the birds would come. They would only sing.
X can still remember the moment of actual penetration. The moment when the bee, straining with all its might, with its repellant legs and buzzing wings, broke through the natural defense of the flower. The moment the petals tore, staining the bee with its scarlet sap. The moment the bee dug its way to the sweet spot, stealing the honey and then flying away. X can still remember the flower, hanging from the trellis, petals torn and bleeding. One organism violating the body of another. X remembers plucking the flower and returning to the stool to sit. X wonders sometimes; why hadn't X simply walked up to the flower and shaken away the offending insect. Perhaps it was voyeurism. The act of watching something so offensive being commited upon something else. But eitherway, X wasn't in any condition to think that morning. Or at least X didn't think...
So all that morning I sat on my stool, and watched as the bees raped the daffodils, and the sparrows sang their approval.
