Wildline

Bees are the first thing you see. Everywhere. Dripping honey and sticky messes, but it’s all contained–don’t worry. 10,000, maybe more? At least half dead. Walking feels like death, and you resemble Hades a little in the way you seem to summon it whenever you turn.

It’s fine, probably. Let them buzz around your head. Let them get it all out.

There’s no queen, so this hive must be displaced; “robbing behavior,” they call it. Western honeybee workers can invade and steal honey and nectar from other colonies. They take all their honey, all their nectar, but leave the pollen and blood.

Glue them back together, they say. I dare you. I dare you to get over here and pick up your pieces after I’ve smashed them all to bits. Look, they say. Look! I’ve even left you all the glue!

Doesn’t matter much. The old colony is dead anyway. Dried, cracked wings half broken-off and strewn along anywhere. Two works are laid down, fixed in their own sticky mess. Holding hands, it looks like. But they couldn’t be. They’re long gone. Thanks to you, probably. Isn’t it funny how everything works out?

Well, they don’t think so. They’re not laughing.