Tuesday, June 26, 2012

THe Birds and The Bees

Hey ya'll 

This was something I wrote several years ago, that started out as a project for Dr. Sharon's Writing Experiments workshop that I later published in a small magazine. Anyway the theme (as with most of my creative writing pieces) is on women issues. This particular story is one that tells, through metaphorical devices more than anything else, of the "rape mythology". 

X pulled a stool out into the garden. It was a beautiful day; the flowers were in bloom and the birds were singing... but maybe you'd get a better picture 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 also. Was it guilt? Or shale? It was sometimes 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 really, 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 relatively small 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 supposedly "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 though. Or maybe magpies. Chirping and calling and singing. And like the bee, their songs too seemed 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, really, X wondered. If we take away the sting, they loose their power, they loose their intimidation. In fact, all the power of a bee comes from its sting! So valued is this one small barb that other insects, moths for example, have taken to mimicking the striking colors of the bee in hopes that other animals are fooled into believing that it possesses a sting. But really, remove the stong, and perhaps they too will loose everything it means to be a bee. But none of the birds would come that day, they would only sing. 

X can still remember the moment of penetration. The moment when that bee, straining with all its might, with its repellent legs and beating wings broke through the natural defenses of the flower. The moment those petals tore, staining the bee red with its scarlet sap. The moment the bee dug - clawed, more like it - its way to the sweet spot, stealing the honey. Then flying away. X still remembers the flower, hanging form the trellis, petals torn and bleeding. One organism violating the body of another. Supposedly, as nature intended it. Suddenly the day didn't feel so warm anymore.

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 some sense of voyeurism, the act of watching something so offensive being committed upon something else. Perhaps it was a mirror to X's own sense of helplessness. Eitherway, X wasn't in any condition to think that morning. Or at least, X didn't think. X took out a paper, and on it scrawled;

"So all that morning I sat on my tsool, and watched as the bees raped the flowers, and the sparrows sang their approval."

1 comment:

savante said...

Now I'll scream and close my legs each time I see a bee!