FGHart

On the third day of Abril, Bativa emerged from the hole where she’d wintered, hunger ultimately pushing her past any concerns for late freezes. She navigated through layers of fallen leaves, the damp, rich insulation that protected her while she slept.

Once free, she vibrated and hummed, warming herself for flight; she needed food. Bativa found crocus and daffodil blooms along the banks of a nearby stream, and she quickly sated her appetite enough to begin her quest for a new home. She meandered, in no hurry, stopping frequently to lap the nectar of brilliant blooms.

As the sun set, she spied a log, nested among the tall grasses near the stream. She circled, coming closer, eager to discover a hollow in the shadows. She landed on the rough bark, then crawled in through a narrow opening, delighted to find a chamber within, perfectly suited to her needs. Satisfied, she ventured back out for another meal before returning to settle in for the night.

Over the next few days, Bativa busied herself, preparing her nursery. She created wax cells to hold eggs and wax pots for the pollen that would nourish her young. She ate frequently, growing fat and gaining energy to build and stock her home.

It wasn’t long before everything was ready. She began the arduous fulfillment of her destiny, laying eggs, one per cell, losing count. Finally, exhausted, she fell into a dreamless sleep. Later, she gathered nectar and pollen from clusters of flowers that rewarded her efforts, providing the protein and carbohydrates vital for the growth of her babies.

Days turned into weeks, with more rain, more flowers, and an exciting time of change in the nursery. Through a series of moultings the cells were near to bursting. Each of Bativa’s larvae spun their own silk cocoon, filling her with pride and anticipation.

Indeed, on the first day of Jvune, Bativa watched as her children chewed their way out of their cases, no longer pupae but young adults, ready to emerge from the chamber as Workers. She buzzed and vibrated, encouraging them, eager to rest and let them take over the business of  food-gathering. The males went off to live on their own; the females remained, subject to the will of the Queen.

Jhuly passed much the same as Jvune, with the Workers flying in and out of the chamber, bringing nectar to Queen Bativa and filling the pollen pots for the nourishment of the eggs. The Queen’s increasing weariness, brought on by her continuous laying and nurturing of eggs, was not discussed.

By Auvust, the Workers, aware of the waning strength of Bativa, began taking liberties they’d not dared to take before; the female Workers lay eggs of their own, hidden among the massive array of the Queen’s eggs.

In Octobver, Queen Bativa was near the end of her life. Quilted fields of zinnias, red, pink, yellow, and fuchsia, drowned the lacy white of baby’s breath and asters, providing a ready source of pollen; a hedge of camellias offered a steady supply of nectar. The Workers droned on while Bativa hovered over the last of the eggs, giving extra care to one, in particular.

By the end of the season, Zebah, next year’s Queen, was born. Without fanfare she freed herself from her cocoon and greedily found the pollen pot, rich with protein and sugar. While she dined, she assessed her extended family. She eyed the male Workers, sizing them up.

Before the first freeze stole what life remained in the Workers, Queen Bativa was dead, and the new Queen, Zebah, ripe with fertilized eggs, slept snugly in an abandoned mouse-hole on the far side of the meadow.

And the days of Bativa were 210, chronicled by Bryce, son of Busz. As for the other events of Bativa’s life, they are written in the records of the prophet Zeeb. Bativa rested for eternity, having lived a good life. She was succeeded by her daughter Zebah, who mated with Zahbta, Sabtev, Bibsam, Zalmuna, and Izbak.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, SAM challenged me with “Write in any style using “The Bumblebee Chronicles” as your title.” and I challenged Billy Flynn with “You thought you were going to get away with it, but the guilt is killing you. “

My name is Charlie. Charles Daniel Bandshaw. Those who know me well call me Chuck. Those who don’t learn soon enough not to make any wisecracks about my name.

My mama, Georgia Bandshaw, had a sense of humor and my daddy wasn’t around to stop her from cursing me with her play on words when I was born. He was playing around, too – on his wife when he knocked up my mom; him a big fancy professor and all, my mom just a freshmen with her whole life ahead of her. He didn’t stick around too long after he found out she was pregnant. Yeah, the devil went down, alright.

Maybe she should’ve had an abortion or given me up for adoption, but she didn’t. She kept me and did her best to raise me. I never doubted she loved me, even when we didn’t have enough to eat or when I had to wear pants three inches too short because of a badly-timed growth spurt. Well, maybe I did doubt a little, during those long nights when I could hear her crying through the thin walls of our apartment.

By the time I was in high school my course was set. I was in and out of Juvie Hall so often I figured they should rename the place after me. It seemed the harder I tried to stay out of trouble the more temptation tripped me up. Doors were left unlocked, cash registers left unattended, invitations always opened before me, impossible to ignore.

Now? I sit in a cell, dressed in my loose-fitting jumpsuit and well-worn shoes, separated from temptation and most of society. I’m fifteen years into a life sentence. And when this life term is done, there are three more waiting. One life for each life I took. Plenty of time to consider what went wrong on that last job and how all of my luck seemed to have run out at once. My luck, and the luck of that man, his wife and their kids.

I’d watched the family leave home that evening; they drove off in their fancy car, dressed in their fancy party clothes. By my calculations, they should’ve been gone for hours. But that poor little girl, the precious…her face haunts me the most. Later I figured out that she’d thrown up on her pretty dress and shoes; they probably never even left the neighborhood, but were back in the driveway before I’d half cleared the wife’s jewelry box. I froze where I stood in the master bedroom, one hand holding the upended box, the other holding up the pillow case, my mouth open in a silent “O,” my breath locked in my chest.

I heard them come in. I heard them talking, though I couldn’t understand the words. I considered my options. I did. I know I did, but I couldn’t seem to think straight. I felt betrayed by their presence. I didn’t know yet about the little girl. Maybe if I’d known they were going to be downstairs for a while I’d have tried to climb out the window, but I didn’t know. How could I?

There have been many sleepless nights since then, spent thinking through those minutes that felt like hours. Wondering.

I quietly set down the box on the dresser and the sack on the floor, then made my way to the head of the stairs. I took several long, slow breaths, trying to quiet my racing heart. From the sounds, I figured they were in the kitchen. I crept down the stairs, pausing, listening, careful to step close to the rail, avoiding creaks.

I don’t remember when exactly I pulled out my pistol. I’d almost forgotten I had it with me. Almost. I didn’t usually carry. Armed robbery carries a much higher penalty than plain old B&E, and I’d planned this job. No one was supposed to be home, so I shouldn’t have needed a weapon.

But there I was, gun in hand, at the base of the stairs, when the kitchen door swung open and the husband stepped through, silhouetted by the kitchen light behind him. He never saw me in the darkness. I didn’t mean to shoot him. I believe that, and will surely die without an explanation for how it happened. In court I swore before God that I didn’t pull the trigger; the gun just went off.

The Prosecutor found a lot of humor in that, or he seemed to anyway. He talked to me the same way my high school principal talked to me, like I was an idiot. My Defender was one of those guys paid for by the public. He was no help. The trial was a joke, but what could I expect? Four people dead, one orphaned.

Once I fired the gun, the mother came running, screaming. I shot her too. Right behind her came the boys. Two more pops from the pistol and they were sprawled across the backs of their parents. And that poor little girl with vomit on her dress and shoes, left behind to cope with the loss of her parents and her brothers. She was too sick to come running. I was the one running, instead. I took off through the front door moving as fast as my feet could carry me. But it was foolishness. Even if she hadn’t seen me, which she did, it was early enough in the evening that the shots had drawn out curious neighbors.

Three eyewitnesses were presented to the jury, and the Prosecutor offered to bring out more. My Defender politely declined. In all, the trial lasted five days. Only an hour of that was spent by the jury in deliberation. I’m not sure what took so long, I’d have bet they decided in minutes without any discussion. Guilty.

I don’t know how to tally the expense of a trial such as mine, including the hours spent in preparation or the obligatory but fruitless appeals. I don’t know how to tally the cost of my room and board, laundry, medical and dental coverage. And I know there’s no way to account for the loss of life. Mostly, I wish that I could restore the childhood I stole from that little girl, her family torn from her in a bloody spray of my fear and bitter resentment of all she had.

My life is nothing, and when I die, three unpaid lives remain. And even if I could be born again and die for each of the lives I took, the debt can never be repaid.

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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, I challenged myself with an Orphan Prompt: “Is our society still worthy of the debt metaphorically being paid to it by criminals?”

Jed sat on his front porch, his chair tilted back on two legs, his feet resting on the rail, his eyes closed, hands resting on his chest, fingers laced together, as relaxed as any man could be on a Sunday afternoon.

At least, he believed it was Sunday. He didn’t pay much attention to the days of the week any more, even less to the hour of the day or the month of the year. None of it mattered. When he hungered, he ate. When sleep came upon him, he rested peacefully. He no longer minded his solitude; he’d learned to relish it. His freedom was, in a word, liberating.

He wasn’t sure how long ago That Day happened, not that it mattered anyway. For a while, right after, he’d mark each passing day on the calendar that hung in his kitchen. Then, after a few weeks, he started drinking. Drinking in a way that a man drinks when he wants to forget. Or maybe he wants to quit living. When a man trades his morning coffee for shots of straight whiskey, and he never bothers to temper the liquor with a meal, the passage of time becomes irrelevant. The days, like his vision, blur and spin, leaving him disoriented. Eventually he sobered up. By then he didn’t know for sure what day it was, so he never bothered with the calendar again.

But That Day. That was a day he’d never forget. It was a day that changed everything.

On November 3rd he woke, stretched as he might on any Fall morning, and wondered idly how he’d managed to sleep so late. It was 8 o’clock already, an hour past his usual Saturday rise time.

“Marge,” he called to his wife of fifteen years. “Where are you?”

It was odd to wake and find her gone; on any other Saturday he’d be nudging her awake. He listened to the stillness of his home, so quiet he could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock. He was alone.

There was no note or any indication of where she’d gone. He checked the driveway, but the car was parked where it always was when she was home. Mystified, he stepped out onto the porch and called again. He walked slowly down the steps to the sidewalk and across the yard to the street. He whistled long and low, a sigh exhaled slowly from his core. He turned to his left, then to his right. Where was everyone?

Birds were singing, and he could hear a dog barking somewhere down the block, but no sound of traffic, no children, no people. Jed ran his hand through his hair, scratched the nape of his neck, trying to make sense of the senseless situation. He turned and made his way back to the house.

November 3rd. That Day. The day everyone disappeared. Everyone but Jed.

He didn’t know why he was left behind. He didn’t know much of anything. But today it was a fine Spring day and the air was sweet. For now, that was enough.

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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, SAM challenged me with “Imagine a world without hierarchy or social class divisions. Can you see it? Good. Now write about it.” and I challenged lisa with “It wasn’t how she pictured retirement, but….”

p.s. I found this challenge extremely, well, for want of a better word, challenging. In fact, this has been the MOST challenging of challenges. I never got my head around “a world without hierarchy.” Even Eden had hierarchy. But, if only one existed, then maybe….